


(How To Train Your) Dungeons & Dragons

by orphan_account



Category: Dragons: Riders of Berk (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bechdel Test Pass, Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 92,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Astrid is a valedictorian prom queen and star athlete, and Hiccup is just really, really good at Dungeons & Dragons. Modern college AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Like High School

**Author's Note:**

> I should not be starting this fic before I've finished my other one, but someone prompted me this and it Could Not Wait. I am very invested. 
> 
> Three things. One, I didn't change the names, maybe I'll explain it, maybe I won't, not knowing is half the fun for you! Two, I'll be crossposting this to FF.net but also to my shiny new writing tumblr (nneurosis), where you can also ask me for drabbles because I'm cool and laidback like that. Three, this fic will contain references to drug and alcohol usage, gendered slurs, and possibly (when I get to it) sexual content. So basically, it's going to be a lot of fun!

Between not getting a single course she’d wanted, her new coach insisting on an extra hour of daily weight training to get her back in shape, and the horrible student health presentation in which they’d been made to sing a song about sexually transmitted diseases while putting condoms on a banana, Astrid’s first week of college had turned out to be something of a bust. 

One of her roommates smelled like weed, which made their apartment smell like weed. The girl, Ruff, had a twin brother in their year living down the hall like some cruel Residence Life joke. He also smelled like weed, all the time. Her other roommate, a dark-haired girl named Heather, kept to herself—Astrid had seen her maybe three times in the ten days they’d been living together. And every time she came home there was a new poster on their door:

FRESHMAN ICE CREAM SOCIAL! SUGGESTED DONATION $10!

_Sign Up for Yoga with Krissy and Twist the Fat Away!_

WRITE RIGHT! _The Writing Resource Center is here whenever you need us! Open Saturdays 10-11!_

She was perpetually tearing down these flyers and binning them, an exhausting exclamation point at the end of each long, tough day.

So when she’d stepped out of the elevator one night after practice to find a round, fair-haired boy taping something over the little brass 8G that identified this door as _her_ door, to _her_ apartment, Astrid _growled_.

The boy turned clumsily to find her standing six inches behind him. Growling.

“Oh, hi?” he squeaked.

“What is _that_?”

He looked over his shoulder at the poster, and lit up. “Oh, my apartment is having a Dungeons and Dragons party, we’re inviting the whole floor.” This soft blonde blubber person smiled at her. “You should come!”

“Do I look,” said Astrid quietly, “like I’m into Dungeons and Dragons?”

He gave her a quick once-over, and she knew what he was seeing: the duffel bag slung over her shoulder, the nails a shade of purple so dark as to be mistaken for black, _Prehealth Handbook_ shoved under one arm, damp hair dripping on to the heather grey shirt with NYU SWIMMING  & DIVING printed across it in beveled collegiate letters.

“Um,” said the boy.

Astrid, looking him right in the eye, reached over and ripped down the poster. “Don’t put shit on my door.”

“Okay. Sorry.” He had started to shake with terror, and now scuttled away, glancing back as if he feared she might chase him. She felt a small twinge of guilt—very small—and glanced at the crumpled poster in her hand. It had a picture of Moo Shu from _Mulan_ and asked her to COME PLAY DUNGEONS  & DRAGONS WITH THE GUYS OF 8B, followed by a second picture of four boys in a kitchen resembling her own. There was the blubber kid, Ruff’s dreadlock-wearing brother, a beefy black-haired guy in a Jets jersey (hard to believe he’d have anything to do with Dungeons & Dragons), and a fourth, whose face was mostly obscured by a cardboard box in his arms, like he’d been trying to avoid having his photo taken. She guessed it had been Move-In Day, would explain the box. She could tell he was a skinny, bony type of kid. Probably with self-esteem issues. “Dorks,” she muttered, and went into her apartment, tossing the poster in the recycling.

Not that it mattered: the next morning, she found a crisp new one pinned to the fridge.

“Oh my god,” she said, deadpan, “they’ve made it inside. Great.”

“That’s my brother’s party,” chimed Ruff around a mouthful of Cheerios. She was straddling a chair at the kitchen table. “You coming?”

Frowning at the image of box-face boy, Astrid opened the fridge and started searching for the coffee creamer. “I don’t really feel like Dungeons and Dragons is my thing.”

“Tuff says that’s just the theme or something, like no one is _actually_ going to do the stupid roleplay stuff, except like his weirdo roommates.”

Blubber boy seemed like he’d qualify as a weirdo roommate. Box-face boy, too. So Astrid understood that much. She shut the fridge. “I don’t know.”

Ruff grinned. “There will be booze. And other good stuff. You know.” Her eyes glazed over slightly. Their apartment wasn’t going to start smelling better any time soon.

Astrid hadn’t yet been to a proper college party. At her last rager, over the summer at this rich jerk’s mansion, she had dumped her high school boyfriend of a year after catching him doing lines off of some model’s breasts—she didn’t miss LA prep school culture. At some point having calculus with a movie star’s kid turned into everyone she knew snorting fucking cocaine and getting arrested for drag racing in the Hills. She’d gotten into that school on a scholarship; she commuted in her ancient dinky car from the downtown apartment her parents had bought back in the 70s. The money and the drugs didn’t make sense. It had turned her off of parties for a while.

Still, this was a relatively small, nerdy get-together in a student apartment. And she’d come to New York determined not to take the past with her. She sighed. “I’ll go for half an hour.”

“We can get really fucked up in half an hour,” said Ruff delightedly.

“It’s dry season for diving.” Astrid retreated to her room with her coffee.

Friday arrived and, as it turned out, drinking might’ve been about the only way to survive this mind-numbingly awful party. She considered breaking dry season—she considered quitting athletics altogether, honestly.

Immediately— _immediately_ , like the moment she crossed the threshold of 8B, the beefy jock kid from the photo cornered her and started to flirt, aggressively. He was called _Snot_ and he preceded to tell her the entire (long, boring, vulgar) story of how he had gotten this nickname, without ever telling her his real one, not that she wanted to know. He leered at her too, making Astrid regret the choice of tank top and short skirt. She’d thought the combat boots would offset the bare skin—it got warm at parties, she knew—but his eyes had stopped squarely at her thighs. Great. Ruff abandoned her, retreating with her brother and a couple of other kids into his room, and after a few minutes a familiar smell began to leak from beneath the door.

With nothing else to do, she spent the first twenty minutes of the party leaning against their kitchen counter with some awareness of Snot’s droning on to her right. Slowly faces she recognized from the hall and the elevator and the lounge filtered in, clumps of exchange students speaking in their own languages, the “cool” RA who started doing shots with a cheerleader, the recognizable khaki-boat-shoes combo of her prep school comrades. They were all freshman, and a little awkward; everywhere she could see conversations stumbling, two people simultaneously asking each other inane questions after a long pause, one guy trying to chat up a girl for the first time. She found herself smiling. No one even mentioned Dungeons & Dragons.

That is, no one mentioned it until about minute forty-five, when suddenly Blubber appeared, and stood on a chair in the middle of the common area shouting, “THE DUNGEONS & DRAGONS GAME IS STARTING IN MY ROOM!”

“SHUT UP, INGERMAN,” roared Snot, “No one cares about the dumb game!”

“HICCUP CARES,” cried Blubber (Ingerman?), still standing on the chair.

“He’s a dweeb too!”

“Heisn’t, gameisinmyroom, byeeveryone.” Ingerman scampered off and disappeared down the hallway.

Snot was fuming, which Astrid found rather funny.

“Is Hiccup the kid with the box?”

“What?” He eyed her distractedly.

“In the photo on your poster. There was one kid hiding behind a box.”

“Oh. Yeah. He’s weird,” grunted Snot, and then he switched gears, leaning toward her. “So speaking of going to someone’s room—”

“Nope.” Astrid shoved her empty red cup (water only) at him and pushed past. “I think I’m gonna go check out this game, it sounds fun.” She said this almost exclusively to rile him, which it did—she heard spluttering behind her as she headed down the hall.

The music was quieter here, and she saw that the farthest door down stood ajar, with quiet, intense voices issuing from within. Now that she had abandoned Snot, she had some regrets. Not even a little part of her wanted to participate in Dungeons & Dragons, though she realized now she didn’t completely know what Dungeons & Dragons _was_ , other than a game that popular culture had coded as geeky. Was there a board, did you move little dragons around on it? Or was it a video game? Astrid had a cousin who was crazy about video games. She played Halo with him at Christmas. 

 _Okay_. So she had, somehow, become a little curious. Maybe it was the frustration of a hard week and a harder summer, driving her to do something different. Maybe she just wanted to see what the kid behind the box looked like. It didn’t seem worth speculating, so she trudged over and knocked gently on the open door as she entered.

Ruff and Tuff sat on the floor, both with slow, comfortable expressions that told her they were far from sober. Across from them was Ingerman—the name on the door had been crossed off, it now said _Fishlegs_. In front of him sat something resembling the display boards she’d used at the science fair in elementary school, but smaller and covered in medieval-ish art. There were papers and some weird dice scattered around him.

Away from them, standing with his back the room, was the tall, pencil-like boy from the photograph. He appeared to be propping the window open, saying, “—try to get the smell out of here.”

“ _You’re_ here,” said Fishlegs in disbelief, gaping up at her.

The boy at the window turned around, alerted to developments. He had dark reddish hair and freckles, and a clean oval face with a wide mouth. He wore jeans and a brown t-shirt and a forest green hoodie, and the rattiest pair of Chuck Taylors she’d ever laid eyes on. She felt like he ought to be behind the counter up at Midtown Comics, arguing with a customer about their choice of Batman serial.

“ _You’re_ Hiccup,” she said, not sure what she had been expecting instead of… this.

“Yes,” he replied slowly, affronted, “And you’re… someone who knows my name?” They stared at each other across the room, Astrid gaping disconcertedly (not quite knowing why), Hiccup growing agitated in the persistence of her gaze.

“That’s Astrid,” Ruff offered, “My roommate. Blonde. She does swimsuit contests.”

“I’m on the diving team,” Astrid corrected flatly. Tuff laughed.

Hiccup, breaking their eye contact, took a seat on the floor of the room with his friends. He moved a little awkwardly, she wondered if she’d made him uncomfortable somehow—she hadn’t meant to sound… you know. “So, Astrid,” he said in a clipped tone, pulling one of the loose stacks of paper toward him, “Are you going to join us? Fishlegs is DM.” She narrowed her eyes—she didn’t like this guy’s attitude, or the bizarre lingo.

“He’s what?”

“Dungeon Master. He runs the game.” Fishlegs waved his science fair display at her. Apparently this had something to do with running the game.

Astrid eyed the twins. “You two are playing?”

“They told me I would get to ride a dragon,” Tuff told her seriously. Ruff nodded beside him, solemn. She sort of envied how far gone they both were, they’d probably have enjoyed anything just about then. Whereas Astrid…

Fishlegs handed Ruff and Tuff each a sheet of paper lined with words. “I’ve never…” she began, gesturing weakly to the game.

“Yeah, I sensed that,” Hiccup quipped, but there was a chilly sarcasm about it. Astrid felt herself blush, a strange somatic reaction, and unusual for her, but she hated to seem foolish, especially around—well, it was sort of like she’d entered another universe when she stepped into this room. It was sort of like she’d entered another universe when she’d stepped on to this _campus_ , and here she was having her first purely social experience at college, totally removed from the high school world she’d navigated masterfully. A valedictorian prom queen and nationally ranked athlete blushing because some skinny idiot thought she was ignorant about a fucking roleplaying game. Oh how the mighty had _plummeted_.

Fishlegs peered at Hiccup, himself puzzled and embarrassed at his friend’s behavior. “Hiccup has been playing for years,” he explained, trying to rationalize the tension. “He’s the best, his character is amazing.” Hiccup did not respond to this flattery but sifted through the papers in his lap.

“His character,” Astrid repeated.

“Yeah, you get a character, and the DM—that’s me—will guide you through an adventure. It’s fun. We have extra characters made up.” He patted a folder at his side, regarding her hopefully.

But between Hiccup’s damn _rudeness_ and her own discomfort with the game, she could sense her retreat coming on. “Sorry,” she managed, the denial clear in her voice, and Fishlegs’s face fell. He glanced at Hiccup again, and the other boy looked up finally.

“That’s fine. Game like this isn’t really for you, anyway.”

Astrid didn’t even have time to register the indignation that rose in her throat, because there was a thump in the hall and Snot appeared in the doorway, gesturing at her. “ _Babe_. Where have you been?”

“I’m not your babe, idiot.”

“You’re not allowed in my room, Snot,” said Fishlegs, an octave higher than usual, like he was pleading with a furious older brother.

“Whatever.” Snot reached for her arm but she grabbed his hand and pinned it backwards, causing him to yelp and everyone else in the room to gasp collectively. (Diver _and_ black belt.)

“ _Don’t_ _touch_ _me_ ,” she spit.

After a few seconds of delightful anguish, Astrid released her hold on Snot, but her peers remained silent, staring at her. She glanced at Hiccup—his expression had shifted from disdain to something that might’ve been admiration. He’d underestimated her. _Prick_ , she thought. _You’re next_.

With four sets of eyes still on her—Snot’s were screwed up as he whimpered and held his likely sprained wrist—Astrid shook her head and pushed by him. “Thanks for the party.”

As she marched down the hall back to the apartment, she heard over and over, _game like this isn’t really for you, anyway_. A stereo throbbed in the apartment above hers, shaking the door as she tried to insert her key. Why did some nerdy stranger get to decide what game wasn’t for her? It was just a stupid game, like Scrabble, or Yahtzee. There’d been a brief period of her life when she thought she was _into_ geek boys, but dating one had proved impossible—he’d been arrogant, and took all of that science fiction shit way too seriously. Once he’d called her a bitch for saying she thought Nelson Mandela had contributed more to the world than George Lucas. (The relationship hadn’t lasted long after that.) _Game like this isn’t really for you, anyway_. Hiccup probably got weird boners thinking about George Lucas, or something. She made it into her apartment.  

Heather was on the sofa, and some guy was on Heather. Okay, not like _on_ her, they were fully clothed, but it was enough to make Astrid shriek and dart back into the kitchen. “Sorry, sorry,” came her roommate’s voice, “We’re going to my room.” She heard scuffing and fading footsteps, and a door shut on the other side of the apartment. Moving gradually, as if she’d just woken from a long sleep, Astrid went into the lounge and sat on the sofa, trying not to think about its last occupants. Her computer was out on the coffee table, and she pulled it on to her lap and opened it. All the tabs were course listings and advice on Premed and a couple online shopping things she’d been checking out. When was the last time she’d checked Facebook, even? She rubbed her eyes—maybe leaving the party had been a bad idea. She could’ve stayed, tried to make friends. It was only ten o’clock, how _sad._

Then again, did she even want any of those people for her friends? She was stuck with Ruff and the brother. Fishlegs seemed okay, if a little bland for her tastes. Snot was awful. Hiccup was… Hard question.

She had an idea. Stupid, maybe, but in the moment it filled her belly with fire; a grin spread across her face. She opened a new tab.

In high school Astrid had been popular and successful to the point where she defied labels; she was studious and ambitious, but had never been called a nerd; she went to swim meets every weekend and worked relentlessly on her times, but had never been called a jock; she dated a slew of boys (and, quietly, a couple of girls) until her last boyfriend, but had never been called a slut. The problem was, she couldn’t remember how she’d done it. Something told her it wouldn’t be quite as easy the second time around. College wasn’t high school. The rules were different here.

But Astrid was smart. She could adapt. She could work at it again, one step at a time. All she had needed was an idea.

* * *

“Why did you  _act_ like that to her?”

Hiccup frowned at his toast. Fishlegs’s question burst out of him two minutes into their breakfast, a half-whispered bullet across the dining hall table. Next to them, Tuff was devouring two massive cinnamon rolls.

“I don’t know,” Hiccup lied.

“She was so pretty. She just wanted to be our friend,” Fishlegs moaned, shoveling bran flakes into his mouth.

“You can’t just want to be friends with girls because they’re pretty, Fishlegs.”

“That’s not the only reason I want to be friends with her. I was just stating an objective fact, that she is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Beautiful and scary,” agreed Tuff.

“Okay,” grumbled Hiccup. A beautiful and scary girl who’d looked at him with such obsessive revulsion, like she was surprised to find him just _so_ unattractive. Like, _wow, I thought this kid named Hiccup was going to be gross, but man, I was not prepared for_ this _level of nasty._ It had ruined his whole night. They hadn’t even had a good campaign after, he’d been too distracted to get anything done. So he’d been a little rude. It’s not like they’d ever see her again—she’d probably get a boyfriend who played football and then she’d become president of the class, and it would be high school all over again. She wouldn’t even remember the nobody who’d kept her from ruining his game of D&D with her long, milky legs—

“I need another cup of coffee,” he announced to his friends, and started to get up from the table.

Tuff pointed past Hiccup, to where he and Fishlegs were now staring. “Might wanna hold off on that.”

“We’re going to die,” breathed Fishlegs.

Hiccup turned. There, stomping toward him in a flurry of radiant yellow-haired beauty and glaring, was Astrid. She was clutching a sheet of paper in her hand.

“YOU,” she called across the hall, so that most of the people between them were forced to stop in the middle of their meals and watch a princess come straight at a talking fishbone, murder in her eyes.

“Good morning, Astrid,” he choked out.

“I’ve got my character sheet.” She thrust the paper in his face. “I spent all night figuring it out.”

It took Hiccup a moment. Actually, it took Hiccup several moments. This girl… had a character sheet. She spent all night making her character sheet.

“For… Dungeons & Dragons?”

“Yes, for _DND_.” She practically spit the acronym at him, showing off her knowledge.

“You want to play Dungeons & Dragons,” he said, trying to see if the sentence would sound more plausible outside of his head. It did not. She was supposed to forget he existed—president of the class—this was just like high school! It was _just like high school_.

Astrid drew herself up to her full height, which was still about a hand shorter than Hiccup. “I want to play Dungeons & Dragons. Your place, tonight. I know you don’t have other plans.”

“I do not have other plans,” he confirmed. His own voice sounded watery in his ears. This was some kind of sexual nightmare, it had to be.

“Great. See you at nine.” She flipped her bangs out of her face and marched off. Hiccup collapsed back into his seat, in numb silence. Fishlegs and Tuff gaped at him like he’d just emerged unscathed from the pit of hell. Last night they had all witnessed Astrid _assault_ Snot, who was definitely the least assaultable of the three of them. But Hiccup had come through unharmed. He had come through with—

“A date,” Tuff roared with laughter, “A weird, scary, beautiful date!”


	2. Same Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you that play D&D, the idea is that they've gone and created their own adventure, which is set in the canon HTTYD universe. So like if you bought a HTTYD adventure to play. Also, I'll admit my expertise is lacking, so just rooooooll with it.
> 
> This fic is so fun. SO FUN, PEOPLE.

Her chosen axe on her back, atop a gorgeous beaked dragon with wings spotted blue and yellow and purple, Astrid flew over stretches of glassy blue water interrupted by jutting, rugged islands, toward one which rose particularly tall above the sea. It curled from the waves, reaching for the open sky, cliffs stacked in spirals, dotted with huts and hills and baying sheep. This was Berk.

 _You’re not going to make it in time_.

“What are you saying, I’m two whole turns ahead of him!”

 _You’re not fast enough, he only needs one turn to go the same distance you can go in four_.

She glanced under her arm. There he was, fifty yards behind her, a black dot growing bigger and bigger.

“That’s so _dumb_!”

Hiccup caught up and pulled along beside her, throwing up the visor he wore so she might see the ridiculous grin on his contemptible face. “Hey there, Astrid,” he said happily. His dragon was a beautiful black creature, like a winged panther, with bright green eyes.

“I ATTACK HIM,” Astrid shouted.

_Well, you’re on the same side so—_

“I strike at him with my _axe_ , Fishlegs!”

 _All right, so you swing at him with your axe… and you miss_.

Hiccup (Hiccup’s _dragon_ , really, because where would he be without that dragon!) dodged her swipe neatly, still grinning. “Guess we know who’s going to get back to Berk first and get the stone from Alvin, huh?”

Astrid let out a frustrated cry. She couldn’t even remember why the stone was so important, only that they had to get it back from this guy, Alvin the Treacherous, who’d they’d been chasing all over the archipelago only to discover that he had been hiding out on Berk the whole time. And also they were from Berk, apparently. Maybe the stone had the power to hurt their dragons somehow, she thought that sounded right.

Hiccup flipped his mask back down and leaned over the sleek black dragon—Toothless, he was called. She didn’t know where that had come from. He shot off ahead of her, and Astrid urged on her own dragon (Stormfly, a good, _cool_ name for a dragon), but she could see him disappearing ahead of her.

 _Hiccup arrives at Berk. Alvin is standing in the village green, holding the stone above his head and cheering to his soldiers. Astrid is still flying_.

“Yeah,” she muttered.

“I swoop in and let Toothless take the stone out of Alvin’s hands while he’s got it in the air.”

 _Okay, you swoop in… a 20. Wow. You did it, you got the stone. The village is saved, Alvin gets imprisoned. Astrid, you just got to Berk_.

“Yeah, Fishlegs, I get it!” she said, slamming her fist on the ground.

Hiccup cackled and folded his arms across his chest, looking pleased with himself. When he laughed, Berk went with him, its perfect ocean and impossible height blinking away, so that they were back in a crummy student apartment on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, a weird hum coming from the overhead fluorescent.

Astrid sat back against Fishlegs’ bed, away from the circle formed by the three of them at their game. The colored dice, the wrinkled character sheet over which she had slaved, and her near-empty bottle of Powerade— _hydration_ —lay at her feet. Her voice came out ragged, deject, like she had been at this for ages, because that was how it felt; the long battle taxed her irreparably, and she was giving up. She looked at Hiccup, whose eyes shone with anticipation, and perhaps a little fear. “I can’t beat you.”

“You were _on the same team_ ,” Fishlegs cried, throwing the Dungeon Master’s book to the floor.

Ignoring his roommate, Hiccup stared at her, and a grin slid across his face. Astrid thought she might like to slap him. “Eh, well,” he said, puffing his chest out a little. “You did your best.”

“I’m never DMing for you guys ever again,” announced Fishlegs, in a flurry of indignation, and he stomped out.

Astrid frowned, trying to contain her amusement. “This is his room.”

“Oh, God, yeah.” Hiccup doubled over, giggling, and she found herself laughing along with him. The tension between them dissolved into mirth, one kind of energy flowing into another. It was a couple of minutes before Astrid could breath again. Hiccup sat up, himself inhaling deeply. They were sitting across from one another on the scratchy low pile carpet of Fishlegs’ room, both still smiling from the burst of hilarity, but she slipped back into seriousness as they gazed at one another. There was something about it, that shared look, that made her stomach flip. Hiccup cleared his throat, and she rushed to check the time on her phone.

“Wow, it’s midnight. Where did those three hours go?” Astrid stirred in her seat, not wanting to stand unless Hiccup did too, a nuance he thankfully picked up on, and they got to their feet. “Thanks for having me,” she said awkwardly, because that was the kind of thing you said at the end of a slumber party to your friend’s mom.

“No problem.” He sounded equally awkward and he wasn’t looking at her, so she’d done fine, she figured.

They went into the hall, and Hiccup stopped at his room. In the common area she could hear Fishlegs ranting to Tuff about their antics in the game, and she had to bite back a grin. Hiccup cracked open his door, and an impulse struck Astrid, she swung around on her heel and turned to follow him inside.

“Hey, listen—” And she had been about to say what a good time she’d had tonight, how much fun it had been even if she couldn’t win, and how she was sorry if she had seemed rude to him when they’d met yesterday. And it was going to be wonderful, and adult, and conciliatory.

But something small and dark streaked out of the room and brushed her feet—Hiccup pushed her side and literally _pounced_ on it, and Astrid thought she might have screamed. Not quite graceful, he was back on his feet, black thing under his arm, sweeping Astrid into the room with him as he yelled down the hall, “We’re fine! Astrid slipped!” She thought she heard Tuff say, “Gross.”

Inside Hiccup’s room, she spun around to glare at him, not appreciative of being manhandled or kept in the dark (figuratively or literally, since the lights were still off). “I didn’t _slip_.” He was leaning against the door, panting, and he flipped the light switch. Suddenly she could see—the white walls plastered with little drawings and postcards of places, a large poster of an angular house jutting from a river with the caption FALLINGWATER – WRIGHT, a pile of blandly colored boy clothes on the floor and more protruding from half-open drawers, pencils and rulers and leather bound notebooks strewn across every open surface, Hiccup himself nailed by surprised to the back of his door, and in his arms a small black cat with bright green eyes.

“That’s a cat,” she said dumbly.

Hiccup winced. “Please don’t tell anyone.” The cat struggled in Hiccup’s grasp and he set the animal down.

“You have a cat?” she said again, still not quite getting it. The cat rubbed against her leg, the fabric of her jeans tugging its lip up, and she saw it had a missing incisor.

“His name is Toothless.” Hiccup sounded distressed, even as he watched Astrid stroke the animal’s head, smiling. “I lived with my dad until this summer. He decided he wanted to go back to Scotland since I was going off to college, and so I moved in with my mom, but then she got a two-bedroom so I could have my own room, and the new place is no pets.” The whole expulsion had winded him, so he took a deep breath.

Astrid looked up from her continuing interaction with Toothless, who had not a fleck of white on him, only a heart-shaped face with those striking eyes. “And university housing is… yes pets?”

“No. I don’t know,” he groaned, and stalked over to sit on his bed. “Just please don’t tell anybody.”

“I’ll consider it.” He made a pathetic little noise. “Okay, fine, I _won’t_.” Tired of crouching, she took a cross-legged seat on his floor, not pausing to think that they were kind of, sort of, hanging out. “You named your dragon after your cat.” Hiccup eyed her, as if he didn’t know whether or not she was being judgmental. “It’s cool,” she admitted. “So your dad is from Scotland?”

 “Yeah. He owns this furniture company with my uncle, they make sofas and stuff. He came here with my mom and started an American branch.”

Astrid laughed to herself. “He sounds like that Scottish guy from the Sofa King commercials.”

Hiccup gave her a sad, resigned look. “That _is_ him.”

She stared at him, open-mouthed, playing the television spots she’d seen (and sung along to) countless times in her head. Unable to contain herself, she started to hum the tune—Hiccup fell back on to his bed, making mock weeping sounds.

“ _Oh the Sofa King, we’ve got the best, couches are our thing so give yourself a rest!_ ”

“No,” moaned Hiccup, still prostrate.

“That’s your _dad_!” She was laughing so hard Toothless had stopped rubbing against her and was now just staring. Cat judgment.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved his arm at her pathetically. He was lying across the bed at such an odd angle, one leg hanging off at the knee, hands dug in between the layers of his hair. His jeans were sort of riding down, she could see the line of underwear against his hip; he ought to wear a belt or something.

“I think our sofa is from there, though, seriously,” she said, trying to keep a straight face, but the moment he peeked at her over his duvet, she cracked up again.

From the other side of the door, Tuff’s voice sounded, and they both snapped to attention. “WELL, THEY’RE ALONE IN THERE WITH THE DOOR CLOSED.”

Astrid glanced at Hiccup nervously, but caught him nervously glancing at her, which made them pop to their feet in unison. Hiccup snatched Toothless from the floor and quickly stowed him in a crate concealed beneath his bed, then threw open the door for Astrid.

Fishlegs, Tuff, and Snot stood in the hall, with varying degrees of horror and amusement on their faces.

“I was just going,” she announced for the benefit of the stares. She tossed Hiccup a quick parting smile, which he returned weakly.

“See you.”

She pushed her way through the crowd of boys, who creepily hadn’t moved. Snot was especially disgusting, he was glaring at Hiccup so hard she thought his eyes might pop out of his head. Tuff just looked kind of hungry. “Bye, guys.”

In the corridor she passed a drunk girl being helped along by her miserable friend, two guys making out, and Ruff, who was napping outside their door. Astrid nudged her, and she stirred.

“Did you forget your key?”

“What’s a key?” she replied thoughtfully.

“Okay, Ruff.” Astrid started fishing through her pocket for her own key, since she knew what that was.

“Heard you made out with Hiccup.”

Astrid stopped fishing. She turned, slowly, to look down at Ruff, whose expression was a happy daze. “You _what?_ ”

“Yeah, oooo.” Ruff made some unattractive kissy faces.

“Who said that?’ Astrid demanded, then heard the urgency in her voice and worried how that might read, and then worried that she was worried how it might read. _What_ was happening?

“Tuff. Said you all went into his room alone for like fifteen minutes.” She tried to wink but the pot slowness made it seem like she’d just gotten something caught in her eye.

“We didn’t make out. We were just talking.” She felt some strange relief, though she wasn’t worried that people had thought they’d kissed or something—she knew that was untrue, there was no need to get worked up about an obvious lie. So where had that panic come from? She couldn’t decide if she even wanted to know.

“Oo, talking.” Ruff clamored to her feet as Astrid opened the door to their place. “I heard sometimes talking can lead to making out.”

“I don’t even have his number, Ruff.”

“But you could get it.”

Astrid shrugged, and locked the door behind them.

* * *

“I’m eating, gang.”

But not one of them moved. Fishlegs sat across from him, Tuff was propped up on the counter, and Snot filled the doorway, his massive shoulders trembling with anger. Resolved, Hiccup continued to eat the small bowl of pasta that was his late night snack.

It stayed quiet except for the scrape of the fork.

Then Fishlegs whispered, “Did you do it?”

Hiccup swallowed a bite of penne. “Do what?”

“ _I can’t believe you made out with her when you knew I liked her_ ,” cried Snot, punching the doorframe, which judging from the look on his face was an immediately regrettable action.

Shaken by the strength of Snot’s reaction, Hiccup could feel his cheeks getting warm. Amazing, just what he needed. “I didn’t make out with her!”

Tuff and Fishlegs exchanged a skeptical look, and Snot stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door to his room.

“You can just say you did,” offered Tuff, like this was somehow helpful, to remind him that he could lie and claim he’d kissed Astrid even if he hadn’t, because the circumstantial evidence was on his side. That seemed—well, wrong. Morally. He couldn’t imagine how Astrid would react, but that was because it was difficult to envision such levels of rage. He thought (maybe, barely, just hopefully) that they might become friends; she was the only person on campus who knew about Toothless, and… she liked Hiccup? Okay, he wasn’t sure about that. But he wasn’t going to give up an opportunity for friendship to earn a little street cred. Not Astrid’s friendship, especially.

“I’m not doing that,” he said simply, then put his dish in the sink and went to his room.

* * *

Hiccup cursed his past self more often than not—specifically, the self that had thought it would be _just fine_ to apply for housing in Manhattan when the School of Engineering was located a 30-minute commute away, in Brooklyn. He lost an hour of his day to the 5 train, everyday.

And thus he did not particularly appreciate the impromptu summons he received from his mother that Monday, because he had _finally_ gotten back to the apartment, and this meant he would have to go all the way down to Washington Square. Only about seven blocks, but thinking about it made him want to lie down on the floor and never get up.

But he did it anyway, because he was a good son, though he didn’t try to disguise the weary slump in his shoulders as he sallied into the Biology department’s cluster of offices.

The door to her office was shut when he arrived, and there were indistinguishable voices coming from within; she was meeting with a student, he guessed. So Hiccup settled on a bench in the hall, tapping his good foot. She had pinned a little comic to her door, but he didn’t read it—his mother had a weird sense of humor, it’d probably be some joke about cells or something. Hiccup didn’t have much appreciation for humor that demanded a PhD.

After fifteen minutes had passed and he’d started to think about just coming back tomorrow, the door opened, and his mother emerged, talking to someone behind her. She was in her baggy scientist cargo pants, large glasses falling down her nose.

“And you can email me any other questions you might have.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

Wait—that voice.

And indeed it was Astrid who came out of the office after his mom, backpack slung over her shoulder and notebook in her arms. They locked eyes before Val had even seen him standing there.

“Hiccup?” she said, smiling. In all of this horror (Astrid had _met his mother_ ), at least she was pleased to see him.

Val turned and spied him. “Oh, good, dear, you’re here.”

“Hi,” he said weakly. “Hi, Astrid.”

“You two know each other?” asked his mom delightedly.

“We’re neighbors,” Astrid explained. “Hiccup, I didn’t know you were interested in Bio.”

Shaking his head, Hiccup started to speak, but he couldn’t quite think how to tell her why he was _really_ in the Bio department right now. She just seemed so… happy. Something told him it wasn’t going to stay that way once she knew.

But his mother, in a very motherly way, did the embarrassing work for him. “Oh, Hiccup’s not a Bio student, he’s my son.”

Ah, yes. He gave Astrid a sheepish smile, then noticed that the horror washing over her face seemed particularly dramatic.

Val added, oblivious to the scene unfolding between them, “Astrid is thinking of declaring a Bio major, and I would be her advisor. Isn’t that exciting?”

“So exciting,” blurted Hiccup, not knowing how to respond to this conversation other than barreling through it with all the energy he could muster. “Did you need something from me, Mom?” Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Astrid mouth the word _mom_.

“Ah, yes!” Val disappeared back into the office, which left him and Astrid staring at each other for a moment. Not enough time to speak but more than enough time for him to get embarrassed and flustered and rub his face vigorously. “Here we are,” said his mom, returning. She handed him a curled up magazine. “This came for you in the mail.”

He unrolled it. _PC World_. “This isn’t mine, Mom. I don’t even have a PC.”

“Oh.” She took it from him, examining the address panel. “You’re right. It’s addressed to me. How funny.” He glanced at Astrid, who was ducked behind her hand, apparently trying not to laugh. It _was_ sort of funny.

“Thanks anyway.”

She patted his arm. “You’re welcome, dear. I have to prepare for class, you two have a good afternoon.” And Val disappeared back into her office, shutting the door behind her.

Astrid slowly lowered her hand, and then started to giggle.

“Okay, fine. It’s hilarious,” he admitted. Without thinking, they fell into step together, heading for the elevator.

“She’s very nice,” observed Astrid, when she had gotten a hold of herself. He shrugged.

“Can’t believe my mom is going to be your advisor. She has her advisees over for dinner all the time, you know, so you’re going to be at my house constantly.” They had reached the elevator, and he smacked the down button. He gestured to himself loosely. “Better get used to all of _this_.” There was an uncomfortable note to that, since he was still rather certain he knew what Astrid thought of _this_ , and it was far from cheering.

But she was grinning at him now, at least. “That honestly sounds great.” The elevator doors slid open and they stepped in side by side. “By the way,” she said, her voice shifting to a register he couldn’t quite identify, “I need to get your number so we can plan to play D&D again.”

Oh. His mouth twisted weirdly—was that a smile trying to happen, but it had gotten caught by his dismay? Also, why was he dismayed? Maybe because everything he knew for certain about the universe was being called into question. “Sure,” he managed, accidentally drawing out the u, so it sounded like _suuuuure_.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Or not?”

“No. Yes.” _Shit_. “I mean, no, it’s not a not, it’s a yes—to giving you my number, because, yeah, that sounds cool, let’s do that, I think, sure.” _Smooth_. He started fumbling in his pocket for his phone, then pulled up a new contact and handed it to her.

Beaming, Astrid punched a few keys, and returned the phone to him just as the doors opened. “I’m getting off here, I have class. But text me something so I’ve got your number, okay?”

“Of course. See you later.” She nodded, waved, and vanished behind the steel doors.

Hiccup inhaled, and hesitated over the empty text conversation. He tried a few things, normal salutations, but they felt stunted. _She likes funny_ , he thought, and so he wrote the first funny thing that came to his mind and hit send.

_What’s up, buttercup?_

Hiccup stared at the sent message in its little bubble. The elevator opened on the ground floor and he stepped off, asking the people who passed him to board it, “What did I do? What did I _do_?”


	3. Buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really have anything to say about this chapter other than, writing this fic is still a lot of fun. And I hope it manages to surprise you over the next few chapters.

“This guy’s biceps are incredible. Best biceps I’ve ever seen. Big as my head.”

_What’s up, buttercup?_

“How am I supposed to do macroeconomics when he’s sitting in front of me? Why are all of his shirts sleeveless? I wonder if he smokes.”

_What’s, up. Buttercup._

“Astrid?”

 _What’s up_ — _buttercup?_

“Astrid.”

The buttercup bubble burst. She looked at Ruff, sitting across from her at their kitchen table, going to town on a bowl of box mac and cheese. Astrid’s own dinner, a baked chicken breast and pile of spaghetti (she had a meet tomorrow), had gone cold on her plate, her hands cupping her phone rather than her fork. She checked the message window again: _What’s up, buttercup?_ No change. No reply had written itself.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and roughly set the phone down across from her plate, where it couldn’t haunt her. Ruff made a face.

“You’re not even texting, you’re just staring. It’s weird.” When Astrid just shrugged— _what’s up, buttercup_ —Ruff’s eyes fell to the phone, and she reached for it, the screen still lit up and unlocked. It was too late by the time Astrid noticed and lurched across the table to try and stop it.

“ _What’s up, buttercup_? Who would—YOU’RE TEXTING HICCUP?”

“Shut up,” said Astrid, as if someone might overhear them in the privacy of their own apartment, and yanked her phone away.

Ruff glowed with conniving victory. “I thought you didn’t have his number.”

“Well now I do.” Astrid tried to turn her attention to the cold chicken and pasta, not meeting her roommate’s eyes, but Ruff now leaned across the table with her chin propped on her fist.

“Wouldn’t have called _that_ for your type.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yeah, buttercup?”

She dropped her fork in sudden annoyance, the confusion she’d been grappling with for the past four hours finally blinding her. “You know, I told him to text me something so I’d have his number, I never expected it to be some weird—come on? Joke? Does he think I’m his _babe_?”

“If Hiccup already thinks you’re his babe I’ve underestimated his confidence levels,” said Ruff wisely.

“Okay, fine.” Astrid gripped her cell. Electric lines danced around the grey bubble of text. “But how am I supposed to respond?”

Ruff giggled. “See you later, alligator.”

“This is dumb,” muttered Astrid. She locked the phone, for real this time, and set it aside.

“I bet he’s an upperclassman,” said Ruff, chewing happily.

“What?” Astrid could think only of Hiccup and his stupid terrible text.

Ruff slapped her upper arm. “Bicep guy! From macro! I bet he’s an upperclassman.”

“Oh, right.” A brief image had flashed into Astrid’s mind, of Hiccup, older and more mature, getting ready to graduate, getting a job in—what was it he wanted to do? Did she even know his major? She swore silently at herself; this was out of control. It was one text. She grabbed her phone, vowing that this would be the last time, and typed a quick reply.

“What’d you say?” asked Ruff.

Astrid picked up her plate and went to heat it in the microwave, feeling hungry at last. “I just said hi back.”

* * *

_Nothing much, honeybunch._

_That doesn’t quite rhyme_

_Okay, don’t be a dick_

Hiccup laughed loudly at his phone, enough that he found himself glancing around to see if anyone in the library had noticed. He wrote back—

_You’re right. It was genius_

The ellipsis popped up right away to indicate she was typing; she must’ve been doing just what he was, sitting somewhere with her phone in front of her, ignoring a pile of problem sets and readings to trade dumb jokes over iMessage.

_Now you’re catching on_

He stifled another laugh, and a thought occurred to him, sudden, violent, unhappy, saying, You like her. Stop that.

But, stop? Why should he stop?

Because (he understood, in dialogue with himself) she’s never going to like you back.

When he looked back to the text conversation, awaiting his reply, the shadow of this understanding slowed his fingers. He wrote, _Very funny_ , and set his phone aside until he left the library several hours later. And then there was another text from Astrid:

_Play again Friday?_

Friday night. Didn’t she have plans? Some party to go to? Astrid was the kind of girl who surely got invited to parties by total strangers, scouted by modeling agencies, proposed to by princes. And she wanted to play D&D with him on Friday night—it was impossible that she _liked_ him, sure, but perhaps she liked him in a different way, or maybe she was just a genuine geek waiting trying to break into a secret passion. Either way, point for geeks everywhere.

_Sure_

* * *

“I said no,” Fishlegs harrumphed, not looking up at Hiccup from his spot on their sofa.

“Please, there’s no one else to DM!”

“I will MC your weird second date,” said Tuff nobly. He was sitting beside Fishlegs, an upside-down textbook in his lap.

“It’s not a date, Tuff,” Hiccup moaned, then turned to implore Fishlegs one last time: “Please. I’ll give you thirty bucks.”

Slowly, Fishlegs closed his notebook, and stood to look Hiccup square in the eye. “I cannot be bought.”

“Fifty!”

“I CANNOT,” he repeated, a little hysterical, and he sauntered from the room with his nose in the air.

Hiccup collapsed on to the couch beside Tuff. “Great. Now Astrid’s coming over here to play a game and I don’t have a game to play.”

“She’s not coming over here for a game,” said Tuff, as though it were obvious.

“D&D is a roleplaying game, Tuff,” Hiccup gently reminded his friend.

“I _know_ that, man. I’m just saying, she’s coming here to see you. That’s how dates work.”

Frustrated, Hiccup pushed his hair off his forehead and twisted a hand through it. “Not a date, Tuff.”

“Yeah it is.”

“It’s not.”

Tuff, watching Hiccup, seemed to realize something, his stubby nose wrinkling in thought. “Then you should probably let Astrid know you’re not into it.”

Hiccup’s hand fell away from his hair. Somehow he felt that Tuff had a piece of knowledge he was missing, he sounded far too confident in this conversation, like the way he did when he talked about how to care for one’s dreadlocks or the proper rolling of a joint. “ _She’s_ not into it. She doesn’t like me like that,” Hiccup corrected, with an uncertain turn in his voice.

Tuff frowned. “That’s not what Ruff said.”

 _There_. Suddenly Hiccup’s chest went tight, he sat forward. “What did Ruff say?”

His roommate did not appear to get why this was important, or shocking. “Eh, I don’t know. That Astrid has a weird thing for you. Weird because you’re not very attractive,” he explained helpfully.

“Yeah.” Hiccup’s head felt weird. “See you later,” he said robotically, and then stood and drifted into the hall.

 _Astrid has a weird thing for you_. He slipped into his room. Toothless, curled at the foot of his bed, flicked his tail in Hiccup’s direction.

“Hi, bud.” And he climbed on to the bed to stroke the cat in ruminative silence. _Astrid has a weird thing for you_.

Firstly, the shock of the _thing_ she had for him. She did not _like_ him, she possessed for him a _thing_ —unless that was just Tuff’s euphemism, and Astrid felt something entirely different. Wanted something entirely different.

And then, weird? Weird because he wasn’t very attractive—again, what was Tuff, what was Astrid? He glanced down at himself, ran a hand over his face: he had never felt very attractive, admittedly. All bone and wiry limbs and freckled paleness. Needing a shave. He struggled to understand what Astrid might’ve seen in him. He remembered the conversation he’d had with his roommates about her, how Fishlegs had called her the best-looking woman in the world, or something; he’d be reluctant to agree with them out loud, because voodoo magic lay in acknowledging the strength of his attraction to Astrid. But it was _strong_. Even sitting here with his cat, fully clothed and far from relaxed enough to be agitated _that_ way, his insides twisted at the thought of her, a heat formed in his abdomen, thinking of her glow when she’d seen him in the Bio department, of her soft, sculpted, lithe limbs. Toothless swatted at his face—even the cat could see he was losing it.

Hiccup spied his phone, lying face down on the duvet. He could text her and ask—but ask what? Do you like me? Is everything Tuff said true? Do you want to go out sometime? Let’s get coffee. What’s weird? Am _I_ weird?

But no. Not when Tuff could be lying, or confused, or Ruff could have misunderstood her roommate. He couldn’t imagine Astrid dishing to anyone about _crushes_.

He had no game for Friday, but if she liked him, Tuff was right—it wouldn’t matter. So come Friday, he’d know. No need to worry about it until then (ha, right).

* * *

“Hey,” was about the only thing Astrid had time to say when the door to 8B opened that Friday night, before the fire alarm went off in a big way. For a second Hiccup and her just stood there staring at each other, cringing at the high-pitched squeal of the alarm echoing through the hall and from his apartment. Then Fishlegs appeared behind Hiccup and pushed his way out, shouting about calm and orderly evacuation, and the three of them made for the exit.

Eight flights of stairs later, both boys were huffing and puffing at the foot of their building while Astrid looked on, smirking in spite of her best effort at modesty.

Hiccup glared at her. “Okay, we get—” He paused to suck in another deep breath. “—it, you’re in amazing shape, the last time I worked out was third period on my last day of high school.”

She grinned, and glanced out at the hoard of deflated college students pouring from the building. Many of them were dressed to go out, or were trying to conceal red cups from the police and firefighters who’d arrived on the scene.

“I bet it’s another microwave popcorn incident,” Hiccup joked, finally having caught his breath enough to stand up straight.

“At least it’s a nice night,” Astrid observed. Mid-September evening in New York meant lovely clear skies and a temperature of about seventy-two. She found it hard to regret being siphoned outside like this.

Fishlegs was in his pajamas and kept looking up to the eighth floor anxiously. “I hope they let us back in soon. I was half-way through an episode of _Scandal_.”

At Astrid’s imploring, amused expression, Hiccup explained, “He really likes _Scandal_.”

“It’s a great show!”

“It is,” said Astrid fairly. Hiccup smiled at her, in that wide, ruddy way of his, so when she heard Ruff calling her name, embarrassment was the feeling that overtook her.

“ASTRID, ASTRID.” Her roommate surged toward her from another clump of displaced students, beaming, her eyes flicking back and forth between her and Hiccup suggestively. Yeah, definitely embarrassment.

Astrid grabbed Hiccup’s arm. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

He frowned at her, but didn’t object to being dragged away from Ruff and Fishlegs. “Sure, I guess.” She waved brusquely at their friends as they departed, pushing through the crowd of neighbors and peers until they reached an emptier stretch of sidewalk. Here was East 14th Street, gateway to the world: already Astrid could feel the weight of roommate gossip and searching eyes lift. Except that Hiccup was looking at her funny, his face all screwed up.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, lying badly, and shoved his hands in his pockets. “So where to?”

Astrid decided to skate on by that little bit of awkwardness; she had an opportunity here. For what… well. Best not to overthink it. The din of Union Square crept toward them from a couple blocks to the right; she headed in the opposite direction, motioning for him to follow. They crossed Third Avenue and the buildings shrunk, the crowds thinned, trees shaded patches of concrete from the streetlamps.

“Didn’t want to see Ruff, huh?”

Her head snapped to look at him—he flushed slightly, maybe he hadn’t expected to catch her off-guard. She didn’t think she could explain why she’d run away from the girl who was her best friend at this school thus far. It would require owning up to some things which, revealed to Hiccup, might’ve made him faint, and she had no interest in trying to revive an unconscious geek. “Something like that.” She tugged mindlessly on the end of her thick braid, watching Hiccup out of the corner of her eye; he gazed at the sidewalk before them, a tiny furrow in his brows, hands in his pockets making him look tense. “What do you want to study?”

He glanced up, seeming a little puzzled at this question. “I… I’m in the Polytech school. Engineering.”

“Engineering,” she repeated thoughtfully. She remembered his room, with the posters of buildings, and little blueprint sketches. Another piece clicked into the Hiccup puzzle.

“What… about you?” His eyes fluttered shut. “Wait, biology. I knew that.”

She smiled, forgiving. “I’m pre-med.” He seemed nervous. What was that about?

Hiccup nodded, his whole torso shaking with the motion of it—definitely nervous, she covered her hand with her mouth so he wouldn’t see her grinning. “A doctor. Sounds amazing,” he managed, with obvious difficulty.

“I’m pretty excited about it.” She couldn’t help that she was on the verge of laughing, and he noticed, shoulders falling from where they’d been wound up to almost his ears. They stopped in the sidewalk while he gaped at her.

“What’s funny?”

Astrid caught the laugh and swallowed it, then stared at him with an open smile, the answer fitting itself together in her head. “You’re so _nervous_.” Hiccup went bright red and turned away from her, trying to pretend he’d just seen something in the street; she punched him gently in the arm. “Just relax.”

“I’m incredibly relaxed,” he spluttered. “This is the most relaxed I’ve ever been, I feel great, I’m zen, I’ve been meditating—”

“Okay, stop.” Astrid waved her hands in his face, to call off his hysteria. “You talk a lot when you’re nervous so you’re just proving my point.”

“How do _you_ know what I do when I’m nervous?”

She shrugged. “I can just tell.”

Hiccup glanced up, unable to argue with her. She was _right_ , she knew it. “Okay, then, Astrid,” he declared, “I’ll relax. Here I go.” And he started down the street with his arms lolling at his sides, like he’d just stepped off one of those spinning rides at the carnival. “I’m doing amazing,” he called back to Astrid, who was stuck to the spot where she’d doubled over with laughter. A couple of passersby gave them—two teenagers laughing and shaking on a very public street corner—a wide berth.

“You look ridiculous. Too relaxed, I take it back.” She regained composure just as Hiccup brought himself back down to earth, apparently having worked out some of his nervous energy in this weird display.

He shook his head, and they continued down the street with new ease. “Too relaxed—you’ve got to work on those mixed signals. A guy could get seriously confused over here.”

 

\--

 

“You liked New York enough to stay for another four years.”

“And you didn’t feel the same about LA?”

Astrid shrugged at the slice of pizza in her hands. They were leaned against the counter at one of those fast, open-late Italian places—subs, pizza, calzones—having decided they were hungry after two hours of walking around the East Village. Hiccup couldn’t have known the grievances stirred by his question; he looked at her with such kindness and friendly interest, trying to get his mouth around the slice he’d folded in that weird way she saw people do here.

Eventually she took long enough to answer that he was prompted to joke, for a break in the silence, “Sore subject?”

She sighed, but she did feel compelled to tell him, for a reason she preferred not to name. “Well. I applied to USC and almost went there, but then I decided I couldn’t go to the place where my boyfriend was going.” A split second of confusion crossed Hiccup’s face at the word _boyfriend_ , but he quickly composed himself, back to attentive listener, now looking as sober as she felt. Appetite waning, Astrid dropped the last third of her slice back on to its greasy paper plate. “I think he might’ve been a little offended that I decided all the way across the country was better, considering that was right around when he started cheating on me and snorting cocaine.” She didn’t look at Hiccup, mainly because she felt this was a bit of an overshare, and the unnamed thing that had made these words come out of her so plainly also made her want to bury her head under seven pillows at the thought of Hiccup, or anyone, knowing what a fool she’d been. Which didn’t even make sense—why did she need to tell him if the idea of his knowing cowed her so?

She rubbed her eyes as best she could without smudging her makeup, then cast a sideways glance at Hiccup. He was chewing thoughtfully, and once he swallowed the instant of eye contact seemed to steel him enough to speak. “I don’t know if it’s out of bounds for me to say, but I’m guessing the reason he cheated on you is because he’s a jerk.”

A weird, light bubble formed in her chest; she smiled at him, her bad mood shrugged off like an itchy winter coat. “You’re right. He is. Was. We don’t talk anymore. You know how it is with exes.” Hiccup nodded, but slowly, squinting at her. “Or maybe you don’t?” she corrected hesitantly.

“Uh.” He scratched the back of his head. “Not—strictly speaking. I mean, I know what you’re… getting at, just maybe not from my personal… oeuvre of experiences.”

“Oeuvre of experiences,” she snorted—a little humor to cover up her actual astonishment that he’d just admitted to never having dated anyone. _Ever_. He pouted at her. “Sorry. It’s not a big deal. I know not everyone wanted to date in high school.”

Hiccup let out a short, dry laugh. “I wouldn’t say I didn’t want to date, I’d say it was more, no one wanted to date me.”

“Did you ever ask anyone?”

He froze, open-mouthed, his cocky boohooing floored. At the _gotcha_ grin on Astrid’s face, he glared. “All right, I didn’t date because… I fear rejection! I’m insecure! Honestly, have you ever met a guy who looks like me that _isn’t_ insecure?”

“I’ve met eight,” replied Astrid, utterly deadpan.

“That’s hilarious,” he said, pointing at her with his pizza crust. “You’ve seen my dad. He weighs two-hundred and eighty pounds and does ironman triathlons in his spare time. He’s a freaking gladiator.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re insecure because you took after your mom?”

He shook his head, and scooped up both their plates to carry to the trash—the guy behind the counter had started to stare at them, it was probably time they were moving on anyway. “I mean, I love my mom. I’m just saying that genetics kind of failed me, here.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” replied Astrid automatically, and then she froze in her tracks, where she’d been about to follow him from the pizza place. Hiccup was staring at her, glued in the doorway: he’d heard it before she had.

Chatting noisily, a group of teenagers—not much younger than themselves but with the unmistakable brightness of high school in their faces—started coming into the joint, and Hiccup had to hurry out of the way, disrupting the awkward moment. When the kids had passed, he and Astrid went out into the street together. It was nearly eleven thirty, and the city buzzed; a thumping club with a line down the block on the restaurant’s left, people overflowing from a bar on its right. Not bothering to speak over the commotion, Hiccup gestured in the direction of the dorm, and she nodded—they started home together in silence.

She kept waiting for him to say something, to resuscitate the conversation with a little joke or an anecdote or a question. She’d noticed he was good at that, interest and compassion on the most basic level, not something enough people could do. Astrid herself found it hard. But the longer he remained quiet the more frightened she became to speak up, and her fear flashed into anger because all she had said was that she didn’t think he was so bad-looking, and then anger into pity, since it had to mean something awful that a compliment could silence him like this. They reached the dorm without a word said, he held the door for her going in. And then, finally, as they stood side-by-side in the elevator, and Astrid was just bemoaning to herself what a nosedive this night had taken, Hiccup spoke up.

“We were supposed to play Dungeons & Dragons.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see he seemed—puzzled, scowling at the glowing 8 button on the elevator wall. “Right. Yeah.”

“You didn’t even ask about it.”

Astrid’s gaze fell to her feet. Okay, so he was upset about D&D. Go figure. “Sorry. The fire alarm happened and I just…”

“No,” he said quickly, “I mean, you didn’t want to play?”

He was really staring at her now, and sounding kind of upset, so she was compelled to look him in the eye. “I did, I just thought we could—also hang out, I don’t really—”

The elevator door opened on the eighth floor, and they were greeted with the faint sounds of blaring music and drunken whoops. As they stepped off, it became apparent that the majority of the noise was coming from 8B, Hiccup’s apartment, and he groaned, staring forlornly down the hall.

“Snot made friends with all these Delta Psi guys. I forgot they were coming over tonight.”

“You wanna come back to my apartment instead?” This time, she didn’t let herself overthink it; she’d said what she said. Sometimes her mouth did things her brain didn’t sanction—with an inward eye roll, she had the passing thought that this was probably to Hiccup’s advantage. She didn’t know what she was doing; she didn’t _want_ to know what she was doing, she hadn’t wanted to know from the very first moment she’d crafted a way to get Hiccup’s number.

He did far too much chaste blushing, Astrid decided. He was doing it now: blushing, gaping. Not understanding that there were things in this world worth really _blushing_ and _gaping_ over.

“To watch a movie, or something,” she added, trying to soften his embarrassment, to unstick his gears. It worked: Hiccup nodded, and glanced over his shoulder one last time at the door to 8B. She wanted to punch him in the arm again—how could this possibly be a hard decision?

“Yeah, sure,” he said, after a long pause. She heard him gulp comically behind her as they headed down the hall to 8G.


	4. Good Night, Bad Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been updating a lot lately, which is awesome, but I’m going into a tough stretch at college that means I might not have much time to work on this story about people going through tough stretches at college. Ideally Chapter 5 will be up in 1.5-2 weeks. If not, come bother me about it on Tumblr.

Thus far, college had been treating Hiccup with a solid share of surprises. He’d even started surprising _himself_.

Astrid was leaning against him, shoulder-to-shoulder, peering at the computer on his lap in bemused fascination, where they sat on the small sofa in her apartment’s fluorescent-washed living room. The contact struck him as miraculous, somehow, his being able to feel her shaking when she laughed, the sloppy way their knees bumped repeatedly after the two or three drinks she had persuaded him to have, because if she wasn’t supposed to drink at all then she certainly couldn’t drink alone, could she? And he had agreed. He felt like a cliché, getting buzzed from a cheap mixed drink on a Friday night in the dorm, but it was a cliché he could stand, if he got to have Astrid inundate him into this ritualistic, bad-movie lifestyle.

“This is—oh my god,” she muttered. On the screen, a bunch of guys were charging each other with prop weapons, wearing shitty fantasy costumes. “People just decided to make this?”

“Told you I’m not _that_ crazy about Dungeons  & Dragons.” This particular video was one of the worst fan-made movies he’d stumbled upon—the pinnacle battle took place in what was supposed to be a sacred valley, but you couldn’t miss the Dunkin Donuts in the background.

She shook her head, grinning, and sat forward to start fixing them another round of drinks. He mourned the absence of warmth by his shoulder. “I wish I had that much free time,” Astrid sighed.

“Why, do you aspire to make a terrible cheap Dungeons & Dragons movie?”

“I mean, it looks like they’re having fun!” Astrid proved reliably unpredictable, he felt himself grinning.

She settled back against his shoulder and handed him his refilled cup. “It does, actually.” Coke and whiskey—it was this or Bud Light when she’d offered. He hadn’t the courage to admit it to her, but this was the most alcohol he’d ever successively consumed: every so often he’d have a couple of glasses wine at dinner with his dad (a survival tactic), and the piss beer at that one high school party he’d deigned to attend was half-palatable at best. Something told him that Astrid had a little more experience with hard liquor. “So, what do you say, me, you and a couple of plastic swords in Washington Square?”

Astrid chortled, burying her face in his shoulder. His soul might’ve lurched from his body. “We could get Fishlegs to film it.”

“You’re joking, but he definitely would.”

“He’d take it very seriously. He’d give us tons of notes and we’d just keep hitting each other with the swords.” She swung at him with an invisible sword to demonstrate, and Hiccup dove aside in mock terror, nearly spilling his drink.

They laughed, and drank more, and Astrid glowed like she was genuinely having a good time, and he was again thinking about how miraculous this all was.

“I can’t believe you like Dungeons & Dragons,” he heard himself say. He hadn’t meant it in anything other than wonderment, but her smile faltered.

“Well.” Astrid examined the rim of her cup. “I do like it. At first I thought it was kind of geeky. I still think that, actually.” She looked up at him, lips pursed, fine gold eyebrows knit together. A thoughtful, significant expression, he thought, though he didn’t know why. “But geeky can be fun,” she said in a low voice, which he could only hear because she had hovered so close to him. Her gaze fell to his chin, or maybe… “So yeah. I like Dungeons & Dragons. Do you think Dungeons & Dragons likes me?”

(Suddenly he didn’t think she was talking about Dungeons & Dragons anymore.)

“Um.” The whiskey—he hoped it was the whiskey—made everything he said sound soupy. “Dungeons & Dragons… it’s, uh, a game, so…” He couldn’t engage with what was happening, but that at least meant he didn’t have the capacity to panic. Because this was a situation worthy of panic.

Astrid tilted her head to the side. She adjusted her seat to drape an arm over his shoulder, rising up a little, which brought him into unfortunate proximity with her chest—but in the movement her leg accidentally swiped the coffee table and they both scrambled to save the bottles of coke and bourbon sitting open there, the intimacy dissolving. “Sorry,” she was saying over and over, “Oh, sorry, sorry.”

She was kind of drunk, he realized. And he too was kind of drunk, drunk enough that his heart sunk when he understood what had just happened was not the result not of true feeling but of alcoholic mania. The disappointment reddened his already flushed cheeks, and he could see Astrid blush too, as she screwed the cap on to the whiskey.

“We’ve probably had enough,” she said, as though she was trying to laugh about it, but instead it came out sounding winded.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. What kind of hellishly awkward person did you have to be to drag someone like Astrid into awkwardness with you? He started passing her the laptop. “We never did watch a real movie—it’s not even one o’clock, we could…” Anything to remedy this. She hesitated, then took the computer.

“ _The Princess Bride_.”

It dawned on him. “Because—”

“Buttercup,” she confirmed, grinning again. The sunken feeling in his chest lifted, he ascended a couple of inches toward the ceiling with the new pleasantness that filled him. “I have it on my computer,” Astrid announced, taking the look on his face as agreement.

“Thanks for not calling out my weird text,” he told her as she went about setting up the film. Cut off or no, the drinks still greased the wheels of his conversational ability. He would never have willingly reminded her of that embarrassing incident if not for the extreme comfort in his belly.

“There are so many other weird things I could call you out on.” A joke, but she didn’t know the half of it. He shifted his legs away from her as she set the computer on the coffee table where they could both watch.

“Then, no thanks, I guess?” The movie had started to play.

“You’re welcome,” chirped Astrid.

They weren’t thirty seconds in when he heard the sound of the front door opening, and someone crashed through Astrid’s kitchen into the living room. Hiccup didn’t recognize her—a dark-haired, edgy-looking girl with huge green eyes. She had keys in one hand and a red cup in the other.

Astrid had paused the movie. “Hey, Heather.” She glanced at Hiccup. “This is Heather, me and Ruff’s other roommate. Heather, this is Hiccup.”

Right. He had heard something about this girl, maybe Tuff saying he wanted her to step on his face, or something equally weird. He gave her a stiff wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” said Heather slowly, and he thought—no, he was certain, disconcertingly certain—that she gave him an appreciative once over before she turned back to Astrid. What was that, _impressed_? Or amused at the kind of person her roommate was choosing to spend time with? “Wow,” Heather crooned, not giving him any clues. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

As she disappeared down the hall to the bedrooms, Hiccup called after, “You can stay if you… want…” When he looked at Astrid, she was hiding a grin behind her hand.

“She was just being funny.”

“Yeah. Hilarious,” he grumbled, and felt something strange in his jeans—his first thought was thoroughly humiliating considering everything that had been said and done tonight, but after half a second he recognized the vibration of his phone. “Hold on.” He drew it out and checked the caller ID: Fishlegs. An instinct told him hitting ignore would be bad form here, even with Astrid sitting there, watching him. “Hello?”

“THEY BARRICADED THE DOOR TO MY ROOM AND NOW I CAN’T GET OUT AND I FEAR FOR MY LIFE—”

 

Hiccup held the phone away from his ear and hit speaker, so Fishlegs’s shouting reverberated through the room. Astrid snorted. Loud music playing in the background nearly swallowed their friend’s voice.

“I’M GOING TO DIE HERE, HICCUP, THEY’RE GOING TO KILL ME—”

“Fishlegs, _who_ is going to kill you?”

“THE DELTA PSI GUYS, THERE ARE LITERALLY HUNDREDS OF THEM, HUNDREDS OF SNOTS—”

Astrid was silently cracked up now, shaking Hiccup’s arm.

“Do you need us to come over?”

“PLEASE, HELP ME—wait, _us_? Are you with Astrid? Is it a date?”

The grin melted off Hiccup’s face. Astrid had slowed, laughter dying on her lips. They looked at each other for a long, painful second.

Hiccup said quickly into the phone, “If we do this, you have to agree to DM for us in the future.”

“FINE!”

“We’ll be right there.” Astrid, eyes on the floor, started to gather herself, as Hiccup sprung to his feet and went for the door.

The thud of the bass coming from 8B shook the entire corridor as they approached the apartment, Hiccup leading the way. The door was shut, but unlocked—the moment he cracked it open, they were met with darkness, deafening house music, and the heat of dozens of bodies packed into a small space. He exchanged an uncomfortable look with Astrid before they forged ahead: neither of them had realized how serious Fishlegs’s concerns might be.

The overhead light was on in the kitchen, but someone had covered it in black construction paper, so it did very little to ease their journey through the sea of humans crowding the room. The counters and table brimmed with empty and half-full bottles of vodka and cranberry juice, cans of cheap beer, bongs and bowls. The tile beneath Hiccup’s feet felt slick, he could smell the spilled alcohol and sweat. It would be hell to clean this up in the morning. He pressed on into the living room, where the stereo system Snot had insisted on installing banged out the beat they’d heard all the way down the hall; everyone here writhed against each other, and on top of getting through it without suffocating, he had to pay careful attention that no one caught his leg the wrong way—but he burst through the dam of dancers into the hall, Astrid close enough behind him that she slammed into his back.

“This is insane,” he shouted at her, but he wouldn’t even have known he was speaking if not for the telltale reverb of his vocal chords. Astrid shook her head at him in the near pitch-blackness, not understanding. He gestured to the throng they’d just escaped, and circled a finger by his head.

 _This is insane_.

She pointed down the hall, to where a wall of boys blocked Fishlegs’s door. He nodded, and they went toward the disturbance. Astrid took the lead here, throwing guys twice her side out of the way, stepping on feet, lunging at anyone who resisted. Hiccup toed through the path she made, squinting apologetically at her disgruntled victims. Finally, there were only two bodies between them and the door—Snot, and a tall, broad-shouldered guy who made all the other tall, broad-shouldered guys they’d just pushed out of the way look like imps.

Astrid snarled at Snot. He had learned his lesson with her, and leapt out of the way. Then, she turned to the big guy, pointing at the door.

_Let me in._

He crossed his massive arms over his massive chest, and smirked. He had a chin like a fist and wore his dark hair in a small ponytail. _No way._

Astrid switched gears, shoulders relaxing—throwing her chest forward a little bit? Hiccup’s throat tightened. She gave the guy a simpering smile. _Not even for me?_ She was flirting! With this guy! To help Fishlegs! Of the competing emotions that flooded him, he didn’t know whether to embrace the horror or the admiration. This girl was something else.

The guy stirred, smirk dissipating. He checked Astrid out, and then glanced at Hiccup, who realized he had been standing a little off to the side, _glaring_ at Snot’s friend. He tried to fix his expression into something more neutral, but their enemy had already found him out, and he laughed smugly. Excellent; now Hiccup looked like the jealous date. _Date_ , what an idiotic word.

Turning his unsubtle attention back to Astrid, the guy reached a hand back and twisted the handle of Fishlegs’s door, which swung open behind him. Astrid grabbed Hiccup and shoved their way into the well-lit, calmer space, with Hiccup pausing to try and close the door behind them, but the big guy slipped right into his path and did it himself, shutting the four of them into the room. He grinned cruelly down at Hiccup, whose main coherent thought was, _ugh_.

Fishlegs sat on his bed, hugging himself. He appeared relieved at the sight of Hiccup and Astrid, the latter of whom rushed to him, but their friend froze when he spotted the room’s fourth occupant.

“Eret,” he whispered. “I thought you guys were _helping_ me!”

“Are you okay?” demanded Astrid, apparently checking him for physical wounds, and in total ignorance of Eret’s presence there. Assuming that Eret was the big guy’s name, and not some slur Fishlegs had invented for oversized, empty-headed frat boys.

“Relax,” said Eret, with a leer; he had an accent, English. London, Hiccup thought. “We were just having a little fun with Fishlegs because he didn’t want to come out and party.”

“A LITTLE FUN?” cried Fishlegs in horror.

Eret shoved his hands into his pockets, and added smoothly, “If you hadn’t been so antisocial to begin with, Fish, we could’ve gotten along better.”

Astrid turned to Eret, scowling. “Bullshit.”

He laid a hand across his chest. “Oh, you wound me, Miss—but I didn’t quite catch your name?” This was such a vapid, transparent move that Hiccup scoffed in spite of himself—drawing everyone’s attention to him, of course.

“And you,” said Eret, losing some charm, “you seem like a delightful bloke.”

Hiccup caught Astrid rolling her eyes, and smiled. “I’m Hiccup, this is Astrid, and you should be leaving our friend’s room.” He folded his own skinny arms across his own skinny chest, which he knew wasn’t as intimidating as when Eret did it, but hopefully he could get his point across. “Now.”

“Aw,” pouted Eret, “But we’re only just getting to know each other.” He directed this statement primarily at Astrid, who was having none of it.

“Oh my god, dude, _get out_.” And she flipped him off.

Eret glanced between Hiccup, Astrid, and Fishlegs, then gave a little nod. “Until next time, then.” And he slipped out, leaving them alone.

Astrid climbed up to sit beside Fishlegs on the bed. “Seriously, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he moaned. “I can sleep through anything, but I wanted to get to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and they came out of nowhere.”

“And they _trapped_ you in here?”

Fishlegs put his round face in his hands. “It was horrible.”

Astrid gave Hiccup a look that suggested she had a lot more to say about Eret and Snot’s behavior than she was about to in the presence of Fishlegs; he frowned, and turned to his friend. “Go brush your teeth. Text me if they bother you again.”

The second Fishlegs was gone, Astrid jumped to her feet. “Motherfucker, that guy is the _worst_.”

“Seriously,” sighed Hiccup.

“We’re in college now, we’re supposed to be _adults_ , and he acts like—like a big bully!”

“In the morning I’m going to tell Snot he can’t have him over here anymore,” Hiccup decided.

Astrid stomped her foot, glaring out the window. “Human garbage.”

“It’s sad.” He didn’t exactly feel sympathetic toward the huge manchild who had threatened Fishlegs and hit on Astrid, but more than burning with rage, he felt pity toward the likes of Eret. Though, knowing the way the world tended to conspire against Hiccup, Eret would probably end up a billionaire CEO while Hiccup slaved away in a menial job at some engineering conglomerate. Maybe Eret would even be his _boss_ —no, that was a little too much daydreaming for one night.

“Sad?” echoed Astrid, still fuming. She didn’t seem convinced.

Hiccup moved toward the door. “We should get out of here so Fishlegs can get to sleep.”

“Your room?”

Hiccup turned back to her—she posed this like an innocent question, but at the expression on his face, Astrid seemed to grow bashful. _Your room_. It was past one o’clock in the morning. He could imagine his bed: small, intimate. She traced her collarbone with a spindly white finger as she waited for his answer. Nausea kicked at his stomach. Not disinterest, just—fear. “I… I don’t know—”

“Yeah, I’m kind of tired anyway.” She threw her gaze to the floor and started to move past him, to the door.

Seized with regret, he caught her by the arm. “I’m sorry this night fell apart, I had no idea it was going to be so crazy.”

“It’s not your fault.” She gave him a smile, but he could tell it was contrived. “Most of it was really fun.”

“Can we hang out again tomorrow? And actually watch that movie. You know,” he joked, “Buttercup!” Lame. He felt so _lame_.

Astrid clearly debated saying no: he could see it in the way her mouth twitched while watching him, stitching together a response. “Okay,” she conceded finally, nodding, “Tomorrow. Let’s do that.”

As she went out in front of him, he shut his eyes. "Yeah. Looking forward to it."

* * *

The next morning, Ruff greeted Astrid in their kitchen, hungover but bizarrely happy: she offered to pour her roommate’s coffee, and made them both toast, with a big grin.

“Good night?” Astrid asked, unable to help considering whether her own night had been good or not. She had only been tipsy, so the fact that she felt like she’d been run over by a truck probably didn’t have much to do with drinking. Which sucked. In fact, she would’ve preferred a hangover. God, why had she agreed to do that _again_ tonight? It was Hiccup’s face, she decided—you couldn’t say no to that face, no matter how many times he shot you down.

Ruff sat down across from her, hands clasped together. “I met him.”

“Met who?”

“Bicep guy.”

“Yeah?” Astrid spoke around her toast. “I thought you were at 8B last night.”

“I was. He was there, he’s friends with Snot.”

The toast in Astrid’s mouth went tasteless. “The guy with big biceps…”

“He’s _president_ of Delta Psi—”

Fuck. “Wait.”

“His name is—”

“No,” gasped Astrid, choking on her toast. _Human garbage_.

“My future husband,” declared Ruff dreamily. “ _Beautiful_ _Eret_.”


	5. Anthropology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that, since I updated my other fic twice in a row, D&D gets two updates in a row too. Which has made the wait much shorter. Congrats.
> 
> Also, slight, maybe, tiny, NSFW warning on this one. I am changing the rating.

It was much to Hiccup’s chagrin that, when he, Astrid, and Fishlegs emerged from their D&D game the next night, they found Eret in the kitchen, splitting a six-pack with Snot.

He waved a sausagey hand at them, winking. “’Evening.”

Fishlegs paled and clung to the opposite side of the room, busying himself with some dirty dishes, while Hiccup and Astrid shared a critical look. Only just this morning, Hiccup had explained to Snot why it was that Eret couldn’t come around anymore—if he wanted to be friends with that kind of person, he could do it outside of their shared space. It was only fair. And he’d thought his roommate had agreed: he’d glared and let out a few shallow huffs, but Hiccup had interpreted the bobbing of his chin to be a nod. Now he thought maybe it had been a gesture of demented fury, because Snot lounged across from Eret, sneering at Hiccup like he was the scum of the earth.

But he had to say, “We talked about this, Snot.” If Snot wanted a fight, he was going to get one, though Hiccup quietly prayed it would involve more words than fists. In fact, preferably _no_ fists.

“Did we talk about it? All I remember is your whiny voice going on and on about something.”

Hiccup grit his teeth, and caught Astrid eyeing Eret narrowly. He seemed to realize then that he was the source of the palpable tension, and rose to his feet. “I believe we all may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” Like last night, he addressed Astrid, and also like last night, his words had a slick veneer, but there was less crafty insincerity behind it. Now he merely sounded like a politician wooing some reluctant voters, as opposed to a Bond villain. Which was, Hiccup had to admit, a slight improvement. “I apologize to you, Fish,” Eret continued, turning to the blonde boy bent over the sink. “That was a cruel thing I did. It won’t happen again.” Snot’s continued smugness somewhat undercut the weight of this peace offering, but before Hiccup could question it, Fishlegs stepped forward, drying his hands on his shorts.

“Apology accepted,” he declared, chin held high. Astrid glanced at Hiccup like, _he’s got to be kidding._ But this was Fishlegs’s life, he supposed, and they could say nothing about it.

Eret grinned. “Excellent. Now,” he said, once again speaking to Astrid, “The brothers have rented out a club for tonight. Our first real party of the year.”

“Last night wasn’t a real party?” muttered Hiccup, to no one in particular. After he’d said it, it occurred to him that perhaps he didn’t know enough about parties to making these kinds of sarcastic judgments, but everyone seemed to breeze by it.

“You’re welcome to come,” Eret told Astrid, and then the rest of them, “All of you. Your friends—the brother and sister—they’ve already said they’re coming.” In the corner of Hiccup’s eye, Astrid stiffened.

“I think we’re okay—” he began, but felt her hand close around his upper arm; she looked at him urgently.

“Can I get a sidebar, Hiccup?” Snot’s eyes darkened as she dragged Hiccup into the hall. When they were alone, she blurted, “Ruff is madly in love with Eret.”

This dawned over Hiccup slowly. Ruff was a baggy-clothes-wearing, weed-soaked blast from the ‘90s. All denim and flannel shirts. He struggled to imagine her being madly in love with _anyone_ , let alone beefy Eret, but then again, Hiccup himself had befriended Astrid, so clearly college was a place where anything could happen. “Really?” was the best response he could manage.

Distress strained Astrid’s voice. “I can’t let her go to a party with him. She doesn’t know what he’s like, I didn’t have the heart to tell her…” Astrid met Hiccup’s eye again, and she frowned. “I think I need to go with them and keep an eye on her.”

His heart sunk. He had sort of been hoping—well. He’d seen Astrid every weekend night since the start of the semester, maybe expecting her to stick around for another round of D&D or a drink or something was too much. He spent the three hours they played brooding over how to slip in a comment about how yes, he thought Dungeons & Dragons liked her too, but if he couldn’t say it in that span of time, what difference would the night make? “Okay, you do what you need to do,” he nodded, studying the seam around the shoulder of her shirt.

“You could come.”

Hiccup glanced up. She was biting her lip, regarding him with worry, and maybe a smidge of hope. He moved his mouth to say something but there were no words waiting to come out.

“It might be fun,” Astrid added, now pleading as much as she probably ever pleaded, which he guessed was not much, “It’ll be like an anthropological study. You can observe all the weird pre-mating rituals.”

He laughed hesitantly—it seemed like she really _wanted_ him there, but he couldn’t envision himself in the cramped, booming confines of a club. It had been frightening enough in his apartment the night before. And to add an unfamiliar setting to that? “That’s not really my scene, you know,” he tried to joke, but the force of it was obvious. Hiccup worried for his leg, for his sanity, that Astrid would see him out in the wild (to use her metaphor) against the backdrop of that normal, young culture and realize what a freak he was for not participating.

The concern dissolved from Astrid’s face, she shifted into what looked like determination. “Come on, Hiccup.”

“You’re peer pressuring me,” he pointed out.

“Yes. Totally.”

Her lips curled into a smile. It was a pretty OK smile. They were pretty OK lips.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Fishlegs appeared in the hall. “Olivia needs me,” he said seriously as he marched past them to his room. Hiccup assumed this had something to do with _Scandal_. Astrid was beaming.

“So,” said Hiccup, “I guess it’s just you and me, and… Snot and Eret.” He could not bring himself to sound excited about this.

“And the twins, when we meet up with them.”

They went back into the kitchen, where Eret greeted the news that they’d be coming along with a laugh and a wink.

The club was in Tribeca, which required them taking the train downtown. As they walked to the subway in Union Square, Hiccup tried to fall in step with Astrid, but Eret took up most of the sidewalk walking beside her, forcing him to pair with Snot, who ignored his proximity to glare at the concrete. They trailed behind Eret and Astrid; he was telling her all about the club, the frat, and his own sorry life.

“I’m technically an earl,” he explained, sounding as childish and earnest as Hiccup had heard him.

He could just see Astrid smirking. “Do all the girls believe that?”

“It’s true. You can google me, Eret, Son of Eret, Third Earl of—”

“Okay, whatever, you’re an earl!”

Eret laughed. “I’m not. God, you’re easy, aren’t you?”

Astonishingly, Astrid’s fair skin had gone red. “Shut up,” she muttered, and shoved him. Eret was chuckling. Hiccup felt like he was sinking, watching them talk to each other. _Flirting_. Or it sounded like it. He could never be sure, which probably had something to do with how much this whole situation stressed him out.

Ruff and Tuff awaited them outside the subway in Union Square. Judging from the pleased and unsubtly mischievous expression on Tuff’s face, they’d just been up to something, probably narcotics-related. He noticed that Ruff had shed her usual attire for a tank top and skirt—still grungy, but sort of deconstructed. As they were standing around the platform, other differences occurred to him: Snot and Eret were dressed differently too, slicker, even Tuff had a button-down on. _Clubbing_ outfits.

Hiccup reconsidered his own t-shirt and jeans. His sneakers were literally held together with duct tape, he’d been meaning to buy new ones for so long. He caught Astrid’s eye—she was laughing quietly, she had seen him observing everyone’s new digs. She was in jeans and a t-shirt, too, he realized. He smiled at her. The train arrived, shooting past them.

They sat together on ride downtown, opposite Ruff and Eret. Ruff kept trying to get his attention while he pretended to be absorbed in his phone, even though he couldn’t have had service underground.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hiccup watched Astrid watching her friend, careful but, he could see, suppressing a smile. He wondered what she might look like without her hair braided; he was certain he had never seen her wear it loose. But perhaps she’d seem less—Astrid, if he couldn’t even picture her another way. He wondered if he would ever get to see it. Weird to think that they had only known each other for a few weeks. 

The club was a black-walled, high-ceilinged, strobe-lit cacophony of sound and motion. Hiccup could hear nothing but the indistinct bass, could see nothing but what the flashing lights occasionally caught, and a woman _in a cage_ above the dance floor, the cage’s bars covered in tube lights. The humidity could have suffocated a small animal. Almost as soon as the six of them entered, the swelling crowd and continuous jostle of bodies split them up. Hiccup thought he’d seen Ruff go off trailing Eret, and Astrid disappeared not soon after that, leaving him more than a little upset and confused. Snot was just gone. Hiccup followed Tuff for as long as he could stand, but when his roommate approached a group of women in heels who were _definitely_ not students, he had to bail. He went to the bar and tentatively ordered a coke and whiskey (this was the only mixed drink he knew he liked), and yelled, “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO ASK FOR MY ID?” when the bartender went to make it right away. She looked at him like he had three heads, which either meant he’d misjudged something, or she couldn’t hear him over the club’s pounding music.

As he was nursing this drink, slumped against the wall, a girl approached him. He thought he recognized her from one of his classes, and tried to talk to her about it, but she just kept nodding and smiling like she was waiting for him to _do_ something, and he didn’t know what—eventually her face fell, and she jetted off into the crowd, done with him. When Hiccup tried to follow, her petite figure vanished in the throng, and he found himself surrounded by grinding bodies.

But Astrid appeared. Right in front of him, her face a big grin, her cheeks with the shadow of a blush in the bad light. She materialized like she hadn’t traveled to get there, like she came from the air, or a dream, a projection of his subconscious. Yet her hands went to his shoulders, and that was real. He thought, _Thank God, now we can go_. And he waited to be lead away, because Astrid would know how to get past all these people, and Astrid would know where the exit was, and Astrid would know the etiquette for ditching their friends; this was her world.

Weirdly, she didn’t turn to guide them out, but her hands slipped down to his—he didn’t understand, and then she began to sway before him. Dancing. She was smiling, motioning for him to do it too. He shook his head vigorously, gestured, _No_. He did not dance. He bobbed his head along to the beat, _if_ that.

As hard as he shook his head, Astrid shook hers harder back at him. She laughed; he could _see_ how magical the sound must’ve been, if only he could hear it.  There were people dancing everywhere around them. No one would see if he started to move, except Astrid, and it was hard to mind her teasing. So he did it, an experimental step, laughing at himself, and at her, since she was so thrilled to see it she clapped her hands together, then gestured for him to give her his hands again. She leaned forward, eager. She was saying, _Let me teach you_.

Surrendering to the persuasive openness of her face, he followed her lead. Unexpectedly, she turned around, the smooth gradient of her hair met his nose. His hands on her hips, her hands on his, teaching him something that didn’t feel like dancing. More of a pelvic handshake. What had she said earlier, about premating rituals? He ought to protest, really, but it was all a little heady. Some physiological switch had flipped on in Hiccup, its current drowning out the shouts of his rational interiority. Music, hips, his face hovering an inch from her neck, but Astrid dragging them yet closer. They went on—would this song ever end? He hoped not. It was the best song he had ever heard, Astrid was small and solid against him. He found that his hands had a mind of their own. He found that his mind had a mind of its own. _Bad_ , screamed the rational interiority, and maybe it said some other things too, about the inevitable result of this gyrating, and how disgusted she’d be with him when she realized, _which she would_. But all that noise was nothing against the force of the instinct that took him.

Astrid’s space against him emptied, but before he had time to process this disappointment, her hand had latched around his wrist. They were going somewhere, weaving around couples dancing in that position he now knew so intimately. She brought them to a hallway, and then into the women’s restroom. His head spun; suddenly he was being pressed against the back of a stall door, Astrid fumbling with the lock.

She shoved her mouth against his. At first he was too surprised to respond, but then—then something kicked to life in him, he relaxed enough to kiss her back. It was quieter in here, he could hear Astrid’s heavy breathing and the wetness of their mouths moving together, but the silence cocooned them just as the music had. A bolt on the door dug into his lower back; her nails grazed his arm, she was clawing at him. The position felt awkward with his leg, he struggled a little to keep his balance and still kiss her with the full passion that had gripped him. He knew he was hard, and he knew that Astrid likely knew he was hard, and he was now willing to consider the possibility that she had been _intending_ to make him hard for some time now. In passing, he noted that it was the first time a human woman, in the flesh, had ever brought him to arousal. But only in passing—thinking did not suit him, just then.

She made a small noise, almost muffled by his lips. A whimper. Her fingers slipped down his torso, a pleasant sensation and then a burning one, as she started on the fly of his jeans. Dully, he noted what this meant. It was as he began considering a compendium of words about sex that he remembered what Astrid didn’t know about him. With horror, he saw that her hand was halfway past the waistband of his boxers. Inches away from his dick. Inches from the first remotely sexual encounter of his life. She was going to pull down his pants, and—

“ _Stop_.”

The word forced its way out of him. She looked up, stunned, retracting her hand.

“Astrid,” he choked, “I have to tell you something.”

Astrid took a step back as best she could, considering the toilet blocking her way. “Are you okay?” She was panting.

“I’m fine—I mean, I wasn’t, but,” she was shaking her head, he needed to explain, “Just please listen, okay?”

She stared at him for a long moment, looking deflated and a little red in the face. “I’m listening.”

“When I was fifteen—” Of all the stories to be sharing in a bathroom stall in the ladies room of a nightclub. Astrid seemed even further puzzled by this introduction. “—I was in a really bad car accident.” He had told this tale so many times now he recounted it without revisiting the trauma, a very useful thing. He could temper his voice, he could parse out the words in the gentlest way. He spared people every shred of the pain he had felt. “And I was very hurt, I was in a coma for two days. I came out of it,” and here it was, “but I lost my left leg below the knee.”

A long silence. Distantly, the bass thudded. His stomach churned. Astrid’s face did not change. “What?”

“I have a prosthetic,” he offered, with contrived brightness, energized by his nerves. He lifted the leg of his jeans to demonstrate—he had worn his jeans a little baggy since then, to disguise the inorganic shape of the fiberglass leg.

Her mouth hung open. He rolled his pant back down, and straightened up to face her. Shaking her head, Astrid said, “I thought you had a leg,” and then gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth dramatically, which was every bit adorable as you might imagine. (Hiccup had always been good humored toward people who swore they’d give their right foot for something and then turned to him in apologetic horror; his standard response was to remark that if _he_ did that, he’d have no feet left to give. It was a way of coping.)

“I kind of like people thinking that,” he explained, adding in earnest, “It’s all right, really.” In high school, everyone had known, and he’d been enjoying not being the tragic-fiery-car-crash-peg-leg kid for the first time in three years.

But she buried her fact in her hands, slouching against the stall partition. “I’m sorry, I—I did shots with Ruff to keep her from going to find Eret, and I… I lost her anyway. I think.” She sighed, and the wetness of her eyes wiped the smile off Hiccup’s face. “I don’t even know where she is. Oh, god. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, in a quieter voice. She was rubbing her face, sniveling. Drunk. A feeling of inexplicable shittiness washed over Hiccup. The kisses, her wanting him—she was drunk. And now she knew about his leg. He did up his fly, arousal squashed; he had never asked for any of this, and it made him want to shake a fist at whoever twisted fate. His chance with someone he genuinely—something’d—ruined by a hook-up fantasy he didn’t have.

A slam: someone entering the restroom, crashing into the stall beside theirs. Starting to retch violently.

They both flinched, but Astrid cringed with her whole body. The whole place smelled like vomit. What a turn-around on the romance.

“I need to get out of here,” she told him. They left the restroom, and then the club.

Astrid fell asleep on his shoulder riding the subway uptown. It was half past two in the morning, a weird crowd was out. Hiccup put an arm around her, more for his own sense of security than for any real protection, but it occurred to him that he was no longer invited to her body, even innocently, and he retracted the gesture. There had been an air of finality, an admission of error, in the way she said her sorry. He thought that made sense. He was Hiccup, after all; what could he be to her other than a mistake?

 


	6. Rough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dungeons & Dragons AU has morphed into Geek Things AU. But that’s okay because I like Geek Things AU.

_Coach: 3 Missed Calls & 2 Voicemails_ .

Astrid stared at her phone. She did not think she could move from her bed.

A text from one of her diving buddies, _Where are you? Coach is so mad_.

The clock read 10:30 AM. She didn’t think she could move from her bed. She hadn’t even managed to get under the covers. Her shoes were off, dumped on the floor, but she could not remember taking them off. By the bed sat a wastebasket lined with a garbage bag. Barf bucket. It was, thankfully, empty.

Practice had been at 9. She understood why dry seasons existed. She was going to be crucified, later.

Last night had started so well: pizza and _The Princess Bride_ , a game of D&D. Then someone said the word _club_ and she didn’t think she could move from her bed. She buried her face in her pillow, trying to remember.

* * *

“Hello?”

Waking with a start, Hiccup swatted instinctively at the face hovering high above him. A strand of soft, female hair brushed his cheek, and the world came into focus. He was met with a pair of pale green eyes.

“You’re Hiccup, right?” said Heather, who stood over the sofa, clearly suppressing her amusement at his half-waked state. “We’ve met.”

He sat up: the armrest had done something truly horrible to his neck, a pain curled up one of the tendons there. “I think so,” he mumbled, rubbing the soreness that ran all the way from his shoulder to the base of his head. He tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hmph.” Heather was in her pajamas, a ratty band t-shirt and a pair of boxers, which Hiccup realized with some weirdness was about the same thing he slept in every night. She turned and went for the kitchen, calling back to him, “You want some coffee?”

“That sounds incredible, thanks.”

She disappeared, and he swung his legs off the couch. His prosthetic felt odd today. Heavier, maybe. Sleep had not left him feeling any less squashed. Funnily enough, he wanted to forget a lot of yesterday, but not the parts one might expect—not the ordeal he’d gone through once he got Astrid back to her place, feeding her slices of bread and cold water, pulling off her shoes and hoisting her into bed. No, none of that seemed regrettable to him. He only hated what had come before it.

Heather returned, balancing two plates and two full mugs skillfully on her arm. “Here we go.” She handed him the coffee—black, which was how he took it, but she couldn’t have known that—and the plate, loaded with a slice of toast. He hadn’t even realized he was hungry.

“Wow. Great service at this restaurant,” he said, around a mouthful of toast. Heather plunked down beside him.

“I waitressed all through high school. This crappy little diner—I’m basically an expert on bringing people toast and coffee.”

His chewing slowed. “Wait, really?” He suddenly imagined this girl in one of those pink dresses with a white apron, stalking around a linoleum diner with a carafe of coffee. Heather was beautiful in a kind of gothic way; she didn’t seem like she’d gel with that bright, small-town atmosphere.

“Yeah. Do you think this paid for itself?” she scoffed, gesturing to the dorm around them, by which she meant the education. He stifled a blip of shame at his own ignorance. He’d barely even realized the affluence afforded by his father’s company until moving in with his mother, who on her professorial salary had strained to get him his own bedroom, and it was the size of a glorified broom closet at that. Not that he’d complained, he’d just—never considered wealth until then.

“Where are you from?”

“Memphis.”

“You don’t _sound_ like you’re from Memphis.” Or Hiccup didn’t think so, but maybe he had less of an ear for these things than he thought.

“Y’all don’t have much respect for a drawl up here,” said Heather, slipping into the twanging dialect with such ease that he nearly spit out his coffee. She dissolved into laughter watching him wipe his mouth.

“Okay, so you’re from Memphis,” he conceded. Heather kept chuckling, then leaned back thoughtfully.

“So how’d you end up on my couch, exactly?”

He shrugged, picking at toast crumbs. “I helped Astrid home from this club last night and by the time she was asleep it was nearly four, so I just…” The sofa had seemed so inviting.

Heather looked at him over her coffee. She had a tangle of thick black hair that swarmed over one shoulder. There was a sort of glamorous messiness to her, like she cared so little about being attractive that she was somehow more attractive for it. “Couldn’t even make it down the hall?” she asked. Coy smile. Hiccup returned it.

“Guess not.”

“Have to say, never would’ve pegged you for a nightclub guy.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, staring at the black screen of his phone sitting on the table, “Me neither.”

“It’s all overrated, isn’t it?” Heather traced the rim of her mug. “We’re supposed to love that life. To want it.”

“Yeah,” he sighed.

“I feel like if you’ve got any—depth of soul at all, all you feel afterwards is shit. It’s this totally artificial amusement.”

As this was the feeling he’d been trying to articulate for some time now, her assessment floored Hiccup. “Exactly.”

They shared a wide smile. He felt like someone was vacuuming his stomach.

There was a groan from the hall—Astrid emerged, hair rumpled, skin dull. “Hi,” she croaked, and then she laid eyes on Hiccup. He could see everything come back to her in an instant; she went red. “Hi,” she said again, nervous.

“Rough,” muttered Heather, eyeing her roommate, and then she caught the loaded look between Hiccup and Astrid. “Great.” Heather gathered the dishes from their little breakfast and carried them to the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone.

Astrid sunk into the spot she had just vacated.

“How are you—are you okay?” he asked clumsily.

She shook her head. “You can probably guess.”

Hiccup forced a laugh at this, though he wasn’t even sure if it had been a joke. She didn’t crack a smile, but fiddled with the seam of her jeans, the same ones she’d worn last night. He could remember the sensation of denim on denim. “Listen,” she murmured. He shifted away from her, trying to shake off the sinking feeling. Why did they need to do this? He could just walk away and it would have the same effect. “About last night.” Her eyes were on him, and he struggled to turn his head to meet her gaze. “I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeated, “Don’t be—”

“No, seriously.” She started to put a hand on his arm, but hesitated, and ended up just holding her palm above his elbow, motioning to him, _steady._ “I think I have some unresolved— _issues_.” Hiccup thought, _I want to die_. She chewed her lip, neurotic, but it was kind of sweet. Even in the circumstances. “From everything that happened this summer, I’m still working through it. And I… dragged you into that. So yeah, I’m sorry.” Her gaze fell to the itchy red upholstery of the sofa. “I have some, um—healing to do. I think.”

“Right,” he said vacantly. And right was what he had been, when he realized he would just be a mistake.

Astrid heaved a couple of shallow breaths, watching him intently. “We’re friends, yeah?”

 _Friends_. It wasn’t like he’d ever asked her for anything else, but disappointment tinged the label. Not his fault, certainly not Astrid’s—he couldn’t blame her a whit, even being used by her was such an intense if brief delight, and in a day or two he might even feel some pride in her. This care for another person’s feelings, delicate rejection, admission of guilt—it was her being adult, in the best and the worst way. Otherwise she’d have ruined him, the catastrophe nonetheless pleasurable for its devastation. She’d saved him a lot of pain and a lot of wonder.

“Of course we’re friends,” he said, and meant it. He was heartbroken and relieved. Crushing grief with reason, because Hiccup could reason his way out of anything, why should this be any different?

Astrid grinned, reassurance lighting her face. “I’m so glad you’re… Thanks.” Him and a girl who looked like _that—_ what had he been thinking, anyway? _Inconceivable_ , and it meant exactly what he thought it meant.

“HELLLOOOOO,” came the triumphant greeting of Ruff from the kitchen, and the two of them snapped to attention. Ruff thundered into the living room, in her clothes from last night, followed by a smirking Heather. “Hello, Astrid. Hello, skinny weirdo.” Hiccup gave her a thumbs up.

“Are you walk-of-shaming?” asked Astrid, drinking in Ruff’s unkempt state with a laugh on her lips.

“More like walk-of- _victorying_. Guess where I slept last night.”

Hiccup and Astrid realized at the same time, and exchanged something in between a snort and a groan. “I’m a terrible friend,” Astrid whispered to him. “Maybe you should take that back.”

“ _Wiiiiiiith Ereeeeeeet_ ,” Ruff sang, ignoring them.

“Congrats, Ruff,” said Hiccup. He hoped they would stop talking about this so he didn’t get any specific image in his head.

“Who’s Eret?” asked Heather, perching on the sofa armrest.

Before Ruff could gush, Astrid answered, “He’s a piece of human garbage with good arm muscles.” So she _was_ attracted to Eret. Not that it mattered.

“He’s my future husband.”

Heather snorted. “Does he know that?”

“He will soon.”

Hiccup’s phone blipped—a text he’d missed a few minutes ago. Fishlegs asking to go to breakfast.

“So how was it?” asked Heather conversationally.

Hiccup sprung to his feet, inadvertently drawing three pairs of girlish eyes to him. “I think I gotta…” He spoke to Astrid mainly, since he was her guest here, or something like that. “Fishlegs wants to get breakfast.”

Astrid rose with him. “Can I come with you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He glanced at the other two roommates. “Do you guys…”

“I need to shower,” said declared Ruff, shaking her head, “But I’m _never_ washing these clothes. They’ve got his pheromones on them. Eret-mones.” With a cackle, Ruff flapped the bottom of her tank at them and sauntered down the hall.

Hiccup looked to Heather, who had on a curious expression. Lips parted slightly, the slightest lift in her brows. “I’m okay.” She parsed out the words with careful ambivalence, and stared at Hiccup when she said, firmly, “But maybe some other time.”

He gave a little nod. As he and Astrid went out, she gave Heather a funny sideways look, but he decided not to dwell on that, or on any of this. There were more important things to cover before he dissected looks, like another three cups of coffee, and his civil engineering homework, and getting home to feed Toothless. Being an eighteen-year-old boy had blocked up his schedule; eighteen-year-old boys who weren’t even supposed to have complicated feelings about anything, whose priorities were meant to be unattainable breasts and kicking ass at video games and getting invited to parties at rollicking nightclubs. Having a gorgeous girl lose her sense for long enough to want him. But it was like Heather had said: afterward, he just felt like shit. That fantasy wasn’t his, it belonged to the scumbags that dominated his age and gender. He had met enough of them to know.

So he might’ve been a loser, but at least he wasn’t a scumbag. Hiccup could work with that.

* * *

At breakfast, Astrid’s silence was half hangover, half having no idea what Fishlegs and Hiccup were talking about. The mess was crowded on a late Sunday morning, students in their pajamas or their clothes from last night, with the exception of some kids who looked liked they’d come from church. She watched them for a while, trying to decide if they seemed less sinful than everyone else.

“But I’ve been working on my Deadpool cosplay all summer,” Fishlegs was saying, pathetically. “Han is so…”

Hiccup shook his head, like these words made perfect sense to him but also expressed some kind of opinion he disagreed with? “There are going to be literally six hundred Deadpools at Comic Con.”

“So? Deadpool Army!”

“Everyone hates the Deadpool Army, Fishlegs.”

“There are going to be a hundred Hans, too—there are going to be a hundred Spideys!”

Hiccup raised his hands defensively, a scone in one. “Then don’t cosplay at all, if it’s such a big deal.”

“Excuse me,” Astrid broke in, “What is cosplay?”

Hiccup and Fishlegs turned, slowly, to look at her. They had identical, dumbfounded expressions on their stupid boy faces. She fought the urge to flip them both off.

Hiccup seemed too embarrassed to answer (mouth hanging open, cheeks a little red), so Fishlegs was the one that eventually spoke up.

“It’s when you dress up as a character and go around as them. At a convention or something. It’s fun.”

“A convention?”

“Yeah, a comic book convention, like San Diego, or New York.” Fishlegs beamed. “We’re going to NYCC in a couple of weeks. Everyone there does it. It’s going to be great.” Hiccup gazed forlornly into his cereal. She was starting to remember some mentions of this in popular culture; people in all sorts of crazy get-ups swarming the streets of San Diego. She had giggled at them on the news though there was something admirable in their passion. Geek culture, exalted.

“You guys are doing the whole… costume thing?”

“I am _cosplaying_ as Deadpool,” Fishlegs said, hurling the word ‘Deadpool’ at Hiccup vindictively. “Hiccup is doing a Spider-Man.”

“Doing a Spider-Man,” Astrid repeated, relishing the words, and the look on Hiccup’s face when he saw her beaming at him.

He straightened up, playing cool. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal,” chimed Fishlegs, insulted.

Astrid leaned on her elbow and grinned down the table at Hiccup. “I have to agree. It sounds like a pretty big deal. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

Hiccup was shaking his head, but before he could protest, Fishlegs went, “ _You should come_ ,” with so much vigor that Astrid found herself delightedly taken aback, and Hiccup kept getting redder. “He’s got an extra three-day pass, come on.” He nudged his friend across the cafeteria table. “She could be your Gwen Stacy!”

“Who’s Gwen Stacy?” said Astrid, her ironic enjoyment slipping into genuine excitement. Thinking about dressing up and running around a gathering of people in equally weird outfits distracted her from every unforgettable thing that had been pressing on her mind last night when she’d done those shots with Ruff. This world was cleaner, fresher. In her old life she had always stumbled, her feet didn’t want to go where that path led—here, maybe, she could find an easier fit. If her friendship with Hiccup and new interest in D&D pointed anywhere, it was toward a reinvention. (What she hadn’t been able to express to Hiccup so well this morning was that they should wait for the paint to dry on her remodel—otherwise, he’d just fuck up his clothes.)

“Peter Parker’s girlfriend—Peter Parker is Spider-Man,” Fishlegs explained, but Astrid shot him a dirty look.

“I know who Peter Parker is. I don’t want to be the girlfriend.” She had already constructed this comic con in her head, and in it, she had power and centrality. “I want to be a superhero too.”

Fishlegs glanced with some uncertainty at Hiccup, who’d stayed unusually quiet throughout this exchange. Now they were both eyeing him, Fishlegs maybe fearing he’d gone too far in inviting Astrid, Astrid herself concerned that her apology had not had time to settle over him, that this was too much too soon. But how were they supposed to get back to normal friend things if they couldn’t be normal friends? Well, as normal as you could be, dressed up like Spider-Man and whoever. 

“Yeah,” he coughed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I can give you my extra pass. Just tell me what costume you want and I’ll make it.”

“You make them yourself?”

“Yeah. Since I was fifteen.”

She pictured him laboring over a sewing machine, pinning fabric, chalking outlines. “I’ll find a really good superhero to be,” she announced. “I’ll let you know.”

Hiccup gave a single, short nod, apparently more focused on his cereal than any of this nerd talk. “Yep. Just let me know.”

* * *

He was almost at the subway when his phone rang a few days later. _Astrid calling_ …

“Hello?”

“ _I know who I want to be_.”

“Astrid?”

“Yes. It’s me. I know you have caller ID.”

Biting back a grin, Hiccup stepped out of the foot traffic, leaning against the storefront of a bagel place. The air smelled like boiling dough. “Very metaphorically loaded statement, ‘You know who you want to be’.”

He could almost _see_ her face scrunch with annoyance. “I mean, I know what costume you should make me, stupid.”

“And what costume is that?” He had been thinking about what he’d do with her inevitable suggestions. How to make a good Wonder Woman, or something. It had to be recognizable, something she could place. That made sense to him.

Then she said, with a note of pride in her voice, “I want to go as Black Cat.”

He was silent for a long moment. Had Astrid just said ‘Black Cat’? “Do you mean Catwoman?”

“No. Black Cat. Felicia Hardy.”

“Astrid?” he asked the phone, because maybe she had been body-snatched? Surely that was the most logical explanation. “You read the Spider-Man comics?”

“I don’t, but I might start. The Wikipedia articles make them sound juicy.”

“Juicy.” Not the first word that came to mind when he thought of those serials, but not objectively untrue, he supposed. “I could do a Black Cat costume, I guess.” He thought of the outfit and felt his palms go sweaty. It had one of those dramatic plunging necklines that had been getting the comic book industry in trouble for years.

“Perfect,” said Astrid. She sounded genuinely thrilled. She _had_ called him right away, it seemed.

“Don’t you mean, _purr_ fect?”

“If you were here I’d smack you for that one.”

“That’s fine. I probably need to get smacked.”

Laughter echoed on the other end of the line. A passing woman saw him and smiled knowingly; he realized he was grinning like an idiot. “I have to go, I’ve got an extra workout to make up for Sunday,” she told him.

“Okay.”

“Have fun storming the castle.”

“Thanks, Buttercup.”

He hung up and took the subway, thinking of Spider-Man and Black Cat on the show floor at Comic Con. She’d need to wear a wig. And then, there was the other dilemma, what Astrid must have missed on Felicia Hardy’s Wiki page, about Spidey and Black Cat. She couldn’t have known, otherwise she’d never have picked that character. Unless it was some kind of litmus test for their new friendship, to see whether or not he could be chill about it, but that seemed unlikely. She understood that they were a little fragile, right now— _she_ was a little fragile right now. She must not have known, and he wasn’t going to tell her. If she didn’t want to be the girlfriend she probably didn't want to be the tragic love interest, either. Anyway, as far as he knew, friends didn’t do couples costumes.


	7. You're A Bad Idea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone come over here and force me to stop updating so quickly. Will there be more Taylor Swift lyric chapter titles? At this rate, probably.

“Astrid.”

“Yes?”

“ _Astrid_.”

“Shut up, we’re having a staring contest.” Toothless’s great green eyes remained trained on her. Astrid lay on her belly across Hiccup’s bed, the cat curled opposite her, atop his pillow. Her eyes began to water. In her periphery she spied Hiccup at his desk, where he was finishing up sketch of her Black Cat costume. It was a Wednesday afternoon, she had stopped by after class, not even announcing herself with a text.

“No one can beat Toothless in a staring contest,” he told her wisely, but Astrid didn’t move. She could beat this cat—it was just a _cat_.

And then said cat whacked her on the nose with his paw, and she jumped back, eyes closing reflexively.

“Cheater,” she gasped, covering her face. Hiccup was laughing.

“He didn’t blink!”

She sat up, scoffing. “I call foul play.”

Hiccup raised his hands. “He didn’t blink. You know the rules. I never said he plays fair.”

Toothless got up and started rubbing against Astrid’s shoulder, purring. She felt herself smile. “Apology accepted,” she told the cat, and began to stroke his head. “How old is he, again?”

“Three. Three and a half.”

“And you got him…”

“When I was fifteen.”

She almost didn’t ask, but Detective Astrid won out over Privacy Respecting Astrid. “That was the same year as the accident, right?”

His pencil slowed on the sketchbook paper. He didn’t look up, and in a second, he was drawing at the normal pace. “Yep. He was my therapy kitten.”

“Therapy kitten.” Toothless laid himself against the warmth of her thigh and began cleaning his paws. His sleek back invited petting, and she didn’t even think she _liked_ cats. “I can see that. It was the same year you started making costumes, too, right?”

Astrid had been collecting bits of Hiccup’s biography even more attentively since the incident in the bathroom stall. It felt maybe a smidge counterproductive, but what that night had told her, among other things, was that Hiccup Haddock constituted a fascinating tableau of a person. Playing a little Nancy Drew, she stitched together a better portrait of the freckled boy with the big secrets—putting aside her thoughts of sex somehow came easier than putting aside her strange obsession with the realm of undiscovered geekery to which Hiccup held the key. And Astrid really liked sex, so that was a first.

Finally, Hiccup met her eye, a bemused but guarded smile on his face. “You been taking notes or something?”

“Maybe.”

He sighed, and set down the sketch. “So I spent a lot of time by myself afterwards. And what had been a casual interest in comic books and tabletop roleplay became… a very serious one.”

Astrid tried to couch her grin with a wink. “And here we are.”

“And here we are,” he agreed, then tossed the drawing to her. “Making you a Black Cat costume.” She spread the sketchbook across her lap: the costume was tight fitting, revealing, and entirely kickass. She beamed down at it.

“This is awesome. And you can really draw, did you know that?” When she looked up, he turned away, shrugging.

“I doodle a lot.”

It seemed like it—she could tell he’d already filled the first half of the sketchbook, the pages were dog-eared and thicker. Checking to make sure his back was still turned, she lifted the Black Cat page, flipping to the previous one. Six little portraits of Toothless, attacking a stuffed toy, licking his paw, balled up sleeping. The style was more cartoonish than photorealistic, but he used bold lines and clean shapes. Astrid grinned, enthused, and turned another page. She recognized the long, clean lines of their apartment building, and in the corner a smaller sketch, the profile of a face she knew— _her_ face, holy hell, he had been—

“ _Hey_ ,” came Hiccup’s voice, and the sketchbook vanished from her lap. He was staring at her, open-mouthed, affronted.

“Sorry.” She had gone red, either from the embarrassment of being caught snooping, or from the embarrassment of being—well, she didn’t really want to consider the second option. “Hiccup, I’m…” He was red, too, he shut the sketchbook and shoved it into a desk drawer, starting to fumble through stacks of paper. Toothless got up from Astrid’s side and leapt to the floor, stalking over to Hiccup, trying to get his attention. She asked, shutting her eyes, “Did you draw me?”

Something slammed against the desk—her eyes flew open. Toothless had scattered. “You’re gorgeous, Astrid, okay?” He was still glaring at his papers, she would’ve thought he was ignoring her if not for the apparently _furious_ way he commented on her physical appearance, which was so… weird. “If this were Paris in the nineteenth century, people would be _dying_ to draw you, you know?”

She spoke hesitantly, growing redder still, “You’re saying it doesn’t mean anything. That you drew me.”

Finally, he swung around in his chair to look at her. He had a hard expression on his face. Defeated. “It doesn’t mean anything. I draw lots of people.”

If she kept going through that book, would she find portraits of Fishlegs and Tuff and Ruff as well? Would she find more of herself? Was she the only one— _gorgeous_ enough to be worthy of this honor?

“I was working on visualizing your costume,” he added, as an afterthought explanation, which would’ve made it suspect if she hadn’t wanted to believe him so much. Wanted to believe that it didn’t mean anything. Because she didn’t want that, some touchy-feely geek doodling her face and hearts around her name and pining for her because she just—wanted to fuck him, for one drunken second. A few drunken seconds. _That’s mean_ , she thought gently. But Astrid didn’t need the attention; she wasn’t ready for it. It tugged at the stitches of the wound in her chest. He’d drawn her—was she meant to protect _his_ feelings now, over her own? Wasn’t that what men expected?   

“Please don’t draw me anymore.”

Hiccup yanked a tailor’s measuring tape from beneath a pile of papers. “I won’t,” he said gruffly, and tossed the tape at her. “Measure yourself, please. It’s got to be perfectly fitted, so you’ll have to do everything.”

Everything. Astrid got to her feet, and stared down at herself. _Everything_? Not knowing where to begin, she started winding the tape around her waist, and then did it again, sure she had been wrong—

“For fuck’s sake,” Hiccup muttered, and the tape slipped from her fingers—suddenly he was there, close to her, measuring an arm, making a note on a scrap of paper; her heart quickened.

“Sorry I looked at your drawings without asking.”

He shrugged and didn’t meet her eye. Kept about his business. “It’s fine. Sorry I creepily drew you, I guess. Also, sorry for admitting it was creepy just now, I didn’t—” Hiccup took a step back from the work, shutting his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” she giggled, in spite of her best effort. “If you draw me again, I want you to show me, though.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to draw you anymore.”

“You weren’t, but then you made a fool of yourself and now I feel guilty.”

At her grin, Hiccup started to laugh—a kind of pathetic, exasperated laugh, half at her joke, and half at his own idiocy—and then shoved the tape at her. “I probably can’t make this any worse by telling you that I just—I _cannot_ measure your… bust, so you’re going to have to do that. At the widest point, please.”

Smirking, Astrid wrapped the tape around her chest, eyes trained on Hiccup’s—until she caught herself, realizing this was a little more come-hither than she had hoped, and focused her attention on the measurement. “Thirty-four inches. How’s that?”

“Don’t ask me, I just make the outfits. What’s your shoe size?”

“A seven.”

Hiccup jotted this down too, and then nodded resolutely at her. “Okay. Give me a week, and you’re Black Cat.”

* * *

Astrid dragged her feet home from a late practice the next day to find Ruff and Eret making out on their couch. This made Astrid the only one in their apartment not to have made out with someone on that couch, but she had decided she was on a romantic hiatus, so _fine_ , fine.

“Disgusting,” she commented as she went through the living room to her bedroom, intending it to be just a passing dig, but Eret quickly extracted himself from beneath Ruff to talk to her.

“Hello, Astrid!”

God. He was going to be _this_ obvious, with Ruff right there? Shameless, this guy.

“Hey, Garbage,” she replied, with a broad grin. He only grinned back in reply—unfortunately he seemed to enjoy her outspoken distaste for him. Like some kind of cute combative flirting. She, of course, didn’t feel the same. Of course.

Ruff, checking her phone, groaned loudly. “Fuck. I gotta call my mom.”

“Just call her later, babe,” Eret crooned, an arm around her waist.

“I can’t, Tuff told her I got arrested.” Astrid snorted in surprise, covering her mouth. “I mean, he did it because I told her that he got a girl pregnant, but _still_.” She raised the phone to her ear and, climbing off of Eret, started down the hall. “Yeah, Mom, Tuff is an asshole…”

Which left Astrid alone with Eret. He smirked at her, lounged on their sofa like a fucking underwear model. If he were a little less ugly, maybe he’d have made a good model, actually—wasn’t as if he had the brains for anything else. “Don’t sit like that,” she reprimanded, and struck out at his feet, propped up on their armrest.

“Too alluring for you?”

Astrid mimed retching. He laughed again, and swung his legs to the floor.

“Fine. Happy?”

“Marginally.” Another thought occurred to Astrid, this one more serious, and she batted at him again, frowning. “Hey. Ruff really likes you. So don’t be an asshole, okay? Let her down easy.”

A strange, wondering expression slid over Eret’s face. She didn’t like the looks of _that_. “What makes you think I don’t fancy her just as much?”

“Because I saw the way you looked at her a week ago.”

He spread his arms, motioning to their living room. “Ah, but I’m here now, aren’t I? And I’m sober.”

“Yeah. And I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, so just, don’t be an asshole.”

Eret sat back, assessing her with a smirk that she _hated_ —she wanted to slap that smirk right off his stupid fat face, the jerk—she took a deep breath, caught her blood boiling and managed to quell it. No letting some basic jock get to her. She was better than that. Actually, she was better than most of the drama that had found her in these first few weeks of school. He said, damnable twinkle in his eye, “I think I’d just love to prove you wrong, Miss Astrid Hofferson.”

Astrid had no answer for that but a scoff; she stormed off to her room, agitated beyond her best judgment.

* * *

The costume actually took a week and a half. Astrid teased him about this wholeheartedly, but when she disappeared into the boys’ bathroom to change and didn’t come out for twenty minutes, he thought he might have something to one-up her with.

“Astrid,” called Fishlegs from where he and Hiccup were slumped against either side of the bathroom door. There was a note of fear in his voice. “Are you okay?”

A long pause. Then she said, a little more high pitched than usual, “Everything’s fine.”

“How’s it fitting?” Hiccup asked. Another long pause.

“Great. It fits… great.”

“Can we see it?”

He heard footsteps, and what sounded like a sigh, and the door clicked, then opened inch by inch. And Astrid emerged into the hall.

 _This was a terrible idea_ , was Hiccup’s first thought. Fishlegs made a noise like someone had just punched him in the groin—metaphorically, maybe they had, and Hiccup began to chant to himself, _Don’t be gross don’t be gross don’t be gross_.

Astrid held her chin high, but it shook slightly. The look of someone trying to appear more confident than she felt. “Do I look okay?”

“ _Okay_ ,” gasped Fishlegs.

“You look great,” said Hiccup, honestly. He’d tried to go with the least revealing version of Black Cat’s get-up, but that still mean a neckline that came down well between her breasts, and a shiny black skin suit. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like I did not anticipate what it would actually be like to wear something… like this,” she joked, a little awkward.

“You don’t have to wear it if you’re uncomfortable, I can make you something else—”

“No.” A muscle twitched in her jaw. “I look fine, right? Like, damn fine?”

Hiccup and Fishlegs exchanged a befuddled look; the latter seemed as though he might burst into tears.

There came heavy footsteps from the living room, and Snot entered the hall, until the sight of Astrid stopped him dead in his tracks.

“ _Fuuuuuuuuck,_ ” groaned Snot, eyes bugging out of his head. Astrid seemed to inflate at this reaction, her entire posture changed, she grew from a sheepish girl to a brilliant woman with the tilt of her shoulders.

“Hey, _Snot_ ,” she cackled, and then flipped him off. Their roommate, flustered, retreated into the living room, and Astrid turned back to them with a grin. To Hiccup, this was objectively the hottest thing he had ever seen. _Don’t be gross_ , he reminded himself, but this feeling, it was _more_ than gross—no, not more than gross, _different_ than gross, a bigger better emotion—a delight. A delight in Astrid. Astrid was a fucking boss.

Fishlegs was making small blubbering noises and backing away from her, down the hall, but Hiccup stayed put, hands in his pockets.

“I think I look great in fur,” she told him happily, smoothing the soft white material running along the neckline. “You did a fantastic job.”

“Eh, it’s just… No, you’re right, I did, I did a great job.” They shared a smile. Astrid cleared her throat. “So,” he said, turning back to his room, “Wanna see the wig?”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

They returned to Fishlegs’s room, where he was sitting on his bed, eyeing Astrid like some kind of unruly wild animal who might strike at any moment.

She waved at him. “It’s okay, Fish. Still me, just in a skin suit.”

Fishlegs made a sound that might’ve been a word but came out a whimper. Astrid only snorted, and Hiccup pulled the white wig from his cosplay box. It would need to be sprayed later, but they could get the essence of the outfit now. He helped her wrap her long braid around her head and pull on the wig cap, then the wig itself.

Even Fishlegs was distracted enough from his distress to declare, gaping, “That’s an amazing cosplay.”

It _was_ pretty incredible. Hiccup tried to hide his grin, but he was proud—people spent months on their cosplays, and he’d put this one together in a few days. Granted, there wasn’t much to it, but they were definitely going to draw eyes on the convention floor. He had to get a business card or something.

Astrid, in a very un-Astrid moment, clapped her hands together and hopped in place. Then, in a slightly more characteristic move, she shoved him. “Now I want to see yours.”

Hiccup glanced at his own costume, lying folded in the box. “I don’t know, it would take me a couple minutes to go change—”

“Just change here.” Astrid flopped down beside Fish on the bed. “I won’t look.”

Hiccup’s whole body could have melted just then. “ _Uh, Astrid_ —” He tried to communicate it to her with the urgent expression on his face, but it was hard not to glance at Fishlegs, who might catch on at any second—

Casual contentment vanishing, Astrid’s jaw dropped. “Oh.” She’d gotten it: Fishlegs didn’t know about his leg. It was sort of a weird thing to bring up with your roommates, and he’d been meaning to, he really had, but they had their own spaces and the topic… hadn’t arisen. Judging from the look on Astrid’s face, this was a pretty egregious discrepancy.

Fishlegs squinted at the both of them. “What… is—”

“Hey, Fish,” said Hiccup quickly, “Could you hand Astrid her pass? It’s sitting on the bed next to you.”

Sufficiently distracted, Fishlegs did as he was told. “This _was_ Tuff’s pass,” he informed Astrid, who allowed herself to be drawn from eyeing Hiccup, “But he decided he has better things to do that weekend.”

“He’s going to an Avril Lavigne concert,” Hiccup elaborated.

“People still go to Avril Lavigne concerts?”

“Apparently he’s a big fan.”

She cradled the plastic card in her hands. “How much do I—”

“My treat,” Hiccup said, resolute. For a moment, he thought Astrid might argue, but she closed her mouth and nodded.

“Thank you. Thanks for letting me come along, and for the costume.” She stroked the chunks of white hair running down her shoulders, smile curling the ends of her mouth. “Can I keep it?”

“I mean, it doesn’t fit me.”

Doing a bit, Astrid looked back and forth between the outfit clinging to her body and Hiccup. “Hm,” she said, in mock thoughtfulness, “Maybe not the best look for you, you’re right.”

Fishlegs snorted gently. “That’s weird.” His voice surprised Hiccup a little—sometimes when he and Astrid got to talking, it was as thought Fishlegs wasn’t even in the room. Which was sort of shitty of him, he supposed.

“I’m going to be Black Cat for Halloween for the next four years, I think,” announced Astrid.

“I’m not sure NYU would know what to do with itself if you did that.”

Fishlegs piped up, “I still want to see your Spider-Man, Hiccup, just go change.”  

So he did. He’d designed the boots to come up to just the right height, ensuring the upper lip of the left one disguised the fastenings of his prosthetic. Not a lot of one-legged superheroes. He’d considered padding the arms, but for the first time in his life he thought he might have filled out enough to avoid it—so he was maybe a little bonier than your average Spider-Man, but passable. Particularly when he’d gone all-out on the materials—this was not the flimsy fabric of Party City jumpsuits or anything. The main textile was a sporty, tight-knit weave, with sheen like scales, and he’d piped on the gel webbing by hand.

“Holy Jesus,” said Fishlegs, nearly sliding off his bed.

Astrid crossed her arms over her chest, but she was grinning. “Okay, now my costume looks bad.”

Hiccup stood in the doorway, smiling down at himself. He felt like he’d stepped off the set of a movie. For the final touch, he pulled on the mask, and gave a bow. Astrid and Fishlegs broke into applause.

Astrid bounced to her feet and went to stand beside Hiccup, slinging an arm around his shoulder. These costumes weren’t like normal clothes, they were thinner, and formfitting, and he could feel how toned and lithe her arm was against him.

“Look at us,” she was saying, “Spider-Man and Black Cat!” Somehow, his own arm fell naturally around her waist.

And he thought it again: _this was a terrible idea_.  


	8. Look At Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve now outlined pretty far in this fic. It’s a slow burn, but the hurts-so-good kind. I do think it will be very long. I’d like to get to 100k words. We’ll see.

In the dining hall one afternoon, the week of their Comic Con adventure, Astrid saw something that made her nearly drop her tray: sitting by themselves at a table, laughing over their lunches, were Hiccup and Heather.

She was shocked. And then, she was confused to be shocked, because what was so astonishing about that? She had introduced her roommate and her friend, and they were making a connection. That was normal freshman year stuff, no worlds colliding, nothing out of the ordinary. She approached them, one foot in front of the other, trying to keep her facial expression in check. Hiccup, looking past Heather, saw Astrid first.

“Hey,” he said brightly, without a hint of embarrassment in his disposition. Heather twisted around and gave her a little smile.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not.” Hiccup slid down the bench to make room for her, and Astrid settled opposite Heather, who seemed a smidge uncomfortable. Astrid got that—despite having lived together for over a month, this was the first time they’d actually shared a meal in this cafeteria. Hiccup was utterly oblivious to the nuance, and carried on as such.

“How’re you, Astrid?”

“Okay.” She pushed some mixed greens around on her plate. “I got a B+ on my first exam.”

“Oh, congrats!”

Astrid gave him a severe look. “I’ve never gotten a B in my life.”

She heard a snort, and her head snapped to Heather. The other girl had a hand over her mouth. At Astrid’s expression, her face fell. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Yeah?”

“Not a single B? Ever? Even in your worst subject.”

Astrid shrugged and began to cut up her chicken. “I don’t have a worst subject.”

Heather, clearly trying not to laugh, made eye contact with Hiccup. Astrid glanced at him, and he gave her a sheepish smile, as if to say, _well, that_ is _a little ridiculous_. Astrid flushed, embarrassed, a little angry, and trained her gaze on her food. Wasn’t Hiccup supposed to be on _her_ side, anyway?

Sensing the awkwardness, Heather cut in. She spoke with an air of politely tempered frustration, as though debating politics at a cocktail party. “It’s crazy how they train us to care about grades, isn’t it? Like if you’re not the best, if you don’t get into the best school with the best test scores and the highest GPA, you’re nothing.”

“It’s brainwashing,” Hiccup agreed, nodding vigorously.

“Absolute brainwashing. All it does is make this army of supposedly educated zombies.”

Astrid finally looked up. “You’re both here, though. So you clearly bought into it to some extent.”

Heather and Hiccup exchanged another one of their fraught glances. Astrid got the feeling people rarely called Heather out on her hypocrisy.

“Well, it really…”

“If you know you’re a zombie, does it make you any less of a zombie?” Astrid inquired, speaking louder, energy renewed by her capacity to stump their conversation. “It’s not like NYU is some alternative school. This—” She waved at the cafeteria. “—is the zombie factory. And we worked our asses off to get here.”

After a beat of silence, Heather said quietly, “But I don’t freak out when I get a B.”

Hiccup coughed and cleared his throat; she could have kicked him. Astrid and Heather stared at each other across the table. The ball was in Astrid’s court—it was her decision, whether or not this would become a _thing_. And she couldn’t help thinking she didn’t know what they were arguing about; something told her it wasn’t education. A sideways look at Hiccup made her painfully aware of his discomfort.

“Fair enough.” She gave them both a broad smile. No tension. Everything, fine.

Straightening up, Hiccup shoved the conversation forward, away from the impasse. “Heather, how are you liking Tisch?” Astrid had forgotten her roommate was in the drama program at Tisch, the arts school. She didn’t have an actor’s bombast, even though—Astrid thought in private snark—she had at least managed an actor’s ego.

“It’s all right. It’s intense.” With a mug halfway to her lips, Heather paused. “Our fall showcase is in a couple of weeks. You should come.” This was clearly directed at Hiccup, but after a second her eyes flicked over to Astrid, too, extending the invitation. “Bring whoever.”

“That’s amazing,” Hiccup replied. “Of course we’ll come.” She felt his eyes on her, imploring. Astrid shifted in her seat, and nodded.

“Totally. We’re there.”

* * *

“I should’ve gotten poppy seed,” said Fishlegs sadly, pouting into the bag of bagels they’d picked up that Friday morning. It was half past eight, and they sat in the lobby of the athletic facility, waiting for Astrid to emerge from her 6 AM workout. The three of them had committed to miss class that day, but apparently the sports thing wasn’t negotiable. Hiccup kept remembering the way she’d mentioned a “6 AM workout” so casually, making him feel faint. He inhaled the caffeinated air coming off his coffee—an extra large, today.

Fish started tearing his bagel into bits, and Hiccup revisited the duffel that held their cosplays and passes. All good.

His roommate tried to hand him a bagel. “You don’t want breakfast?”

But for whatever reason, Hiccup’s stomach felt odd. He shook his head, checked his watch. “She should’ve been out fifteen minutes ago.”

“The con doesn’t even open until ten.”

The logic did nothing for his nerves. Hiccup’s phone lit up, and began to vibrate. _Astrid calling_.

“Hey,” he said, breathless from answering too quickly, “Where are you?”

“Where are _you_? I’m waiting in the locker room.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I figured we could just change in here before we go.”

Fish was watching him, chewing. Hiccup’s mouth hung open. “The… women’s locker room?”

“Don’t worry, everyone already left. Just go down the left hallway from the lobby, you’ll see it.”

“There… in a minute.” The phone fell away from his ear.

“Is she coming?” asked Fish.

“She wants us to come back to the locker room and change there. With her.”

Fish’s chewing slowed. He swallowed. His eyes had grown, they were terrified, glinting coins. He sprang to his feet and started rifling through the duffel.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my cosplay.” Clinging to the ball of red fabric, he scurried toward the men’s room off the corner of the lobby. “I’m not going back there!”

Hiccup could feel his heart quickening, this was a truly low blow. “Wait, you’re going to make me go _alone_?”

“Meet you here in fifteen,” squeaked Fish, and he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Great,” Hiccup told the empty lobby, and he gathered the duffel and bagels and shuffling down the equally empty hall, its royal purple walls plastered with larger-than-life photographs of people doing things in NYU regalia. Basketball, football, crew. He passed one of a woman plunging toward a glowing teal pool, and stopped—it was hard to say, with her hair concealed under a swimming cap and the contortion of the dive, but he thought he recognized the contour of Astrid’s jaw, and the shape of her arms and legs. There was a crowd amassed in the stands, watching her. He got that.

After a few minutes of bumbling, he found the locker room, and opened the door, then remembered to knock. The entrance had a privacy wall that kept him from seeing inside without entering; he called out, “Astrid?”, and heard it echo.

“Come on in,” came her voice, from far off, also echoing.

He took a few cautious steps into the room and, growing more confident that he would not be struck down by the powers that be for his audacity, edged along the rows of empty lockers and benches. Astrid sat on a bench in the very last row, by the sole open locker. She wore only a bath towel, held up with a small hand laid across her chest. Her long damp hair ran down her back, well past her shoulder blades, exposed like furled wings. She smiled when she saw him.

“Finally.”

“Sorry about that.” He dumped the duffel on the floor. “I did bring you breakfast, though.”

“Oh, thanks.” He tossed her the paper bag with the bagels and she poked through it.

“Hey, is that—” He gestured to the hall he’d just come from. “Is that a picture of you, out there? In the—”

She groaned, shook her head. “Yeah. They just put up new ones. It’s a little much, if you ask me, but I wasn’t going to say no.”

“It’s a cool picture.” 

She shrugged. She’d had nothing to do with taking the photo, of course, he didn’t know why he was telling her this.

“Where’s Fish?” she asked, peering around him.

“Changing in the men’s room. He was too nervous to come back here.”

Astrid paused as this sank in, then cackled, popping up to go to her locker. “It’s just as well. Now you can change here.”

“Yeah,” he said unsteadily. As if he didn’t feel nude enough, alone in a women’s locker room with her. Catching the expression on his face, Astrid quirked an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Back to back, obviously.” She raised a defensive hand; it held a bra. Somehow the presence of this bra equaled her near-nakedness in the upsetting effect it had on him. “Wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

“Well, I _am_ truly precious.” He handed her the Black Cat costume from the bag, and drew out his own. They shared a quick smile, and then turned their backs in tandem. Hiccup now looked down the vacant row of lockers. He took a deep breath. It was silent but for the crinkle of fabric somewhere behind him. He unzipped his hoodie, shrugged it off his shoulders.

Astrid’s voice carried over to him, “So, it’s probably not any of my business, but I think you should tell Fish about your leg.”

Hiccup pulled his shirt over his head, glowering off into the emptiness. Thinking about this issue was a slight improvement from thinking about the fact that he was stripping ten feet from a principally unclothed Astrid, but only a slight one. Barely even slight. Imperceptible, in reality. Just replacing one kind of distress with another.

“He’s your friend,” she added, in a heavier tone. “I just think… the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to be when you do.”

“What, you think I’m going to trip on the sidewalk one day and have to be like, ‘hey, don’t panic, my leg didn’t fall off because it was actually gone the whole time’?”

“He could be your friend for four years, or the rest of your life, you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

He went about the difficult task of removing his jeans around his prosthetic, an unfortunately poignant underscore to Astrid’s reasoning. His speech felt garbled and difficult in his throat. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

“You’ve told people before.”

“Strangers. Acquaintances. TSA officers, not—”

“You told me just fine.”

He’d been afraid of her bringing this up. _Just fine_ didn’t seem like a fair qualifier. They hadn’t spoken about that night in any specific terms; he contented himself with ignoring it. “That was different.”

“Not _that_ different.”

“Yeah, _that_ different.” 

Astrid fell silent. He had got on the lower half his costume and was pulling on the top. It occurred to him that he couldn’t just turn when he was done, or he might accidentally catch her—yeah.

“Let me know when I can look, I guess.”

“Oh. Sure, I’m ready.”

He turned around. Astrid sat on the bench in her skin suit, legs crossed. Watching him. _Shamelessly_.

“Wait, how long—”

She waved him off. “Relax, I’ve seen a boy in boxers before.”

“Not this boy!” Oh, he was red, he was _so_ red, tomatoes would’ve envied him so red was he—

She went _hmph_ and stuffed her street clothes in the duffel, then shut her locker. “Come on, we have a con to get to.”

They took the subway uptown. When Astrid’s hair had dried, he helped her into the white wig. People stared, but they stared less than they might’ve in a city other than New York. At 23rd Street, another group of cosplayers got on—including a six-and-a-half foot tall Chewbacca—and three kids dressed as superheroes was officially old news. Not that it kept one particularly seedy dude from staring at Astrid, until Hiccup deliberately stepped into the stranger’s sightline. She gave him a puzzled look, but he only shrugged. “Leg was falling asleep.”

Once they left the subway and started walking toward the convention center, their outfits appeared less and less conspicuous among a sea of other people dressed in varying states of cosplay and weirdness. Hiccup started to smile, content to forget that if Astrid didn’t know about Spider-Man and Black Cat, she would soon find out—these were his people, this was his place. He kept spying familiar characters in the crowd and shaking Fish’s arm excitedly, once even jumping up and down a little, and he heard Astrid tittering behind him. They hadn’t even made it into the convention center and she was already laughing at him. A tiny doubt monster settled on his sternum: had it been a bad idea to invite her along? To admit her to this holy, communal aspect of their lives? He had only shared the interest with Fishlegs because his roommate had expressed it first. The same certainly couldn’t be said of Astrid.

But when he looked at her, really looked, he could see her gaping at someone’s incredibly detailed dragon puppet, and waving at the passersby who happily gestured to her costume, recognizing. That was his favorite thing—the freedom you had here to run up to a total stranger, and share your love of something. In Hiccup’s view, there were few better ways to interact with people. No judgment, just passion. And Hiccup had passion in excess.

They were a block from the con when they got their first one.

“Spider-Man and Black Cat! Can I have a picture?”

A short balding guy in a Pokemon t-shirt, holding a DLSR camera. He grinned at them, delighted.

Fishlegs, in what Hiccup had to admit was not the worst Deadpool cosplay ever, shuffled off to the side with an eye roll. Astrid glanced back and forth between the man and Hiccup, until he gave her a quick nod. _This is normal_. He’d forgotten to warn her about it.

“Sure,” he told the guy, and the two of them stepped together, Hiccup pulling on his mask. A fumbling moment as they tried to figure out a pose, until Astrid grabbed his arm and pulled it around her waist. He felt her hand on the small of his back. She looked intently at the camera—he tried to do the same, tried not to think about her fingers, tried not to let the inevitable remembered image flash through his head. That hand dipping beneath the waistband of his underwear. Whatever; fine; just a thought. The camera’s shutter snapped a few times. Astrid drew away, muttering _you’re welcome_ in reply to the photographer’s thanks.  

By lunch, this had happened eight more times, and Hiccup got enough of a grip not to jump out of his skin every time they posed together, though he remained hyperaware of each slight variation in the placement of her hand on his back—and inch higher, or further to the right, or she’d make a loose fist instead of laying her palm flat. They perused the show floor, and he promised to help her make the right decision in purchasing her first comic book, a prospect that gave Astrid a weirdly disproportionate amount of joy, but he wouldn’t question her excitement. Any reservations she might have had about the con went out the window within the first hour: soon she was doing as much jumping and arm shaking as Hiccup himself, pointing out beloved characters she knew. She made Fishlegs take her picture with the Powerpuff Girls, and told the trio seriously afterwards, “You are my heroes.”

They’d just finished up burritos from a food truck outside the convention center when the ninth photo request arrived. A bunch of girls in Hogwarts uniforms, their leader a Ravenclaw. Fishlegs had gone off to a panel from the _Scandal_ people, so there was no Deadpool jealousy to negotiate.

Hiccup and Astrid slipped into the now familiar pose, not a fumble or a hesitation in sight. Her hand was a little lower, this time. The Ravenclaw held up her phone.

“Can you give him a kiss?”

Well. _Leave it to the person in the laziest cosplay ever_ , he thought, and squashed the cruel instinct. He’d known this would happen. With the mask on, no one could see his face, but Astrid’s expression was for the world.

She squinted at the girl, open-mouthed—in a half-second, their photographer would feel weird, and then they’d feel weird, and it would be a big deal, and Hiccup would probably end up giving some terrible stuttering explanation as to why this wasn’t such a strange thing to ask of two people cosplaying as Black Cat and Spidey—and he felt something against his cheek.

The Ravenclaw snapped the picture and disappeared with her friends. Astrid leaned away from him, and he tugged off the mask. He’d barely even felt the kiss through it. He had a strange, unpleasant, sinking feeling.

“Hey,” he said quickly, trying to get in step with her, as she’d already taken off to go back inside. “Sorry I didn’t warn you about this whole picture thing.”

“No problem.” He couldn’t quite get a read on her face, but her voice sounded flat.

“I hope that wasn’t weird.”

Her steps hesitated, and Astrid half turned toward him, frowning. “Why would that be weird?”

Agh, fuck. “Well, you know. It’s because—” Hiccup ran a hand through his hair, rubbed his face. Fuck, fuck. “I mean, I don’t know if you—I know you didn’t know, but Spider-Man and Black Cat, they’re like…”

“An item?”

His head snapped up, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gazing at the ground. Astrid was giving him this obvious stare, like she didn’t get what the fuss was about. “You knew?”

“I told you I read her Wiki page. What, you think I’m an idiot?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he was floored by his _own_ stupidity—she had read Black Cat’s Wiki page— _of course_ she knew about their relationship, what had he been thinking? She hadn’t thought it was weird for them to cosplay like this for the same reason she didn’t think it was weird for them to change in the same room. The tension he felt around her didn’t run both ways, at least not until she had a few shots in her, and he didn’t want Astrid-after-a-few-shots, unless that Astrid came with a morning after. _Get over this girl_ , said a small voice in the back of his mind. It was too late by the time he got out, “No, of course I don’t think you’re an idiot”; she was marching away from him, into the convention center’s swamped lobby. “Astrid, I’m really sorry!”

She stopped in her tracks and swung around to face him. They’d drawn the attention of a few costumed smokers loitering near the door.

“You like to think,” she began, with the bite of vindication in her tone, “that you’re so much better than like—Eret, and Snot, because you’re a _sensitive_ boy, who likes comic books and sewing and dressing up all weird. But you, _Hiccup_ ,” she raised an accusatory finger, “you can be a condescending ass of the highest order, when you put your mind to it. So whoop-de-doo for you, you finally have something in common with all the big, popular guys!”

The accusing hand fell away, and it was just quiet between them. He was certain that, should he raise his own hand to his chest, he would feel a gaping hole where her words had smashed through his ribcage. Astrid caught her breath, watching him with the light of anger in her eyes. He managed, quietly, “That was harsh.”

She took another deep breath, swept some stray wig fibers away from her mouth, and threw a dirty glance at their now riveted audience of smokers. “You needed to hear it.” The conflict dissipated between them, as he’d noticed it tended to do—when they fought, it worked in a pattern of crime, indictment, and punishment. In this case, the punishment was hearing himself brought down to the likes of Eret and Snot. And it had been… effective.

“I think you’re right.” He bit his lip, trying not to smile. “So, ‘whoop-de-doo’?”

“ _Ugh_.” She flipped him off and started back for the convention center, but this time, they walked together.  


	9. Wanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit is getting kind of real in this fic, now. The next few chapters are going to be… well. You’ll see.

Spilling across her coffee table, their glossy colors and bold lines overlapping across the thin spines and slanted lettering, were more comic books than Astrid had seen outside the otherworldly realm of Comic Con. Not an inch of cheap, grainy wood peeked through the messy layers, book on book on book, all slipping against one another, obscuring the table’s edges.

“Okay,” she breathed, laying a hand across one of the worn, precious volumes. “I start with this one.”

Hiccup tapped another. “Yeah, and then this one.”

“And then…” She paused, hands wavering over the table. They had been through this—as much sense as any of it made. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Hiccup hiding a smile behind his hand. She glared at him, and he rearranged his face, sitting forward to start gather the books.

“Just follow the numbers. And text me if you lose your place.”

“When I asked you to help me get into this, I didn’t expect you to bring me a library.” As he stacked the volumes, she counted: ten, fifteen, twenty. Her geek renaissance came with a packed syllabus.

Hiccup shrugged. “They go fast.”

“Hmph.”

He checked the time and groaned; she watched carefully, fending off a wave of disappointment. He would have to run out, now, which she’d known—he’d only come by to drop off the comics, it was a Thursday night in the midst of midterms. Comic Con had ravaged their and Fish’s study schedules. Astrid had hardly seen Hiccup this week, a strange absence after spending three ten-hour days together, one after the other. “All right, I need to go,” he sighed, getting to his feet.

“Long night ahead?” She gave him a tired smile, which he mirrored, about matching her energy.

“Big paper for my writing class tomorrow, yeah.”

The locks clicked in the kitchen—someone arriving home. “Good luck with it,” she told him. “Am I gonna see you this weekend?”

“Yeah, sure—” Heather came into the living room, in dark jeans and a motorcycle jacket, backpack slung over her shoulder. Her cheeks were red, it had been a cold fall day. “It’s Heather’s showcase this weekend,” said Hiccup, grinning at Astrid’s roommate.

A weird—weird was the only word Astrid had for it—expression lighted over Heather’s face at the sight of Astrid and Hiccup together, discussing her.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, grinning to match Hiccup.

Astrid nodded, fingering a comic book to distract herself from the uncomfortable understanding that Hiccup and Heather had gone and done it—become friends. Without her there. “I nearly forgot.”   

“I seriously need to get going,” he announced, giving Astrid an apologetic nod. She waved to him. “Enjoy the comics. Let me know what you think.”

“Will do.”

He did a nervous little salute-wave at Heather on his way out, and her eyes followed him. “See you tomorrow.”

This left Astrid and Heather alone on either side of the common room. Astrid, hoping for whatever reason that the other girl might move on to her bedroom, began to flip through the first pages of a comic book. They hadn’t spoken since that strange lunch in the dining hall last week, and now they had no Hiccup to console them. Of things they had in common, Astrid could only pinpoint a boy and an apartment.

“Hey,” said Heather. Astrid looked up; her roommate was moving to sit in one of the armchairs opposite the couch.

“Hi.” Her nerves kicked into gear.

Heather was nervous, too, or at least she seemed more jarringly candid than Astrid could remember. “Listen.” She lowered her backpack to the floor, and rubbed her legs. “I feel like we kind of… got off on the wrong foot.”

“I didn’t know we got off on a foot.”

Heather hesitated at Astrid’s snark—maybe that had been a bad call, but it flew out of her thoughtlessly. “Okay,” said Heather, closing her eyes. “I’ll just cut to the chase, then.” A pause. “Are you hooking up with Hiccup?”

The comic book slipped from Astrid’s hands, and she had to scramble so it wouldn’t fall to the floor in a bent-up heap.

Her brain rocketed into defensive mode: don’t stutter, don’t flinch, don’t blush, don’t do anything to let her know what’s going on in here, you are made of _steel_. She smoothed the recovered comic against the table. No crisis here. She’d made her decision about this, weeks ago, and now was not the right time. Geek renaissance—forgetting her ex, whose name she still refused to think to herself—until Astrid could register him, name and all, with the other past loves whose crimes she’d archived, to be recalled in retrospect alone—until she was over it, there was only one thing to do. She knew, Hiccup knew. Or she thought he knew. The question had an unambiguous answer.

“No, Hiccup and I are just friends.”

“Great,” said Heather, exhaling, and grabbing her bag to go.

“Why do you ask?” _Stupid question!_ screamed a voice in her head. _You know why_.

Heather stood, looking down at her over three stacks of borrowed comic books. She had the expression of a woman who had entered into negotiations hoping for a friend and come out with a business partner; satiated, compassion checked. “Because I didn’t want to be the girl who hooks up with someone her roommate’s into.”

Astrid nodded so hard she thought later that she had pulled a muscle in her neck. “Perfect, because I’m not. Into him.”

Heather smiled, false warmth. “Just wanted to be sure. You never know what people are going to want.” Her roommate gave the comic books a last glance before she disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Astrid leaned on the doorjamb of Ruff’s room, frowning. “You’ve been dating a week and he’s taking you to the Hamptons?”

“Montauk,” came Ruff’s muffled voice. She was stuck halfway under her bed, searching for an evasive sandal. “It’s Delta Psi’s formal. They rent out a bunch of beach houses for cheap in the—” Popping out from beneath the bed, Ruff sucked in a deep breath and waved a flip-flop above her head. “Gotcha! Anyway, they rent the vacation homes out for practically nothing in the off-season, and everyone goes and gets wasted on the beach.”

Astrid nodded. “Sounds stimulating.” She had been so stunned on Monday when Ruff announced that Eret was now her boyfriend, pretty much nothing the more pleasant of her two roommates did—including this impromptu weekend getaway—could surprise her.

“I’m gonna be stimulating something all right, what _what_ ,” sang Ruff, and then she offered a hand for a high five, which Astrid gave her, laughing.

“I’m excited for you.”

“Yeah, right? Now if my professors would stop failing me, I would literally be _so good_ at college.”

“ _Hello_ ,” boomed Eret’s voice, coming toward them down the hall. Astrid took a step back and saw him, in a t-shirt that must’ve been two sizes too small, a cooler propped on his shoulder. “Hofferson,” he greeted her, a grin splitting his big face. She felt the curl of her lips, returning the gesture. “Can I squeeze by you?”

“You can try.” She twisted into the room, allowing him to enter. Eret and Ruff exchanged a sloppy, somehow overtly sexual kiss in place of a hello.

“Your brother,” Eret told his girlfriend, “tried to sell me a joint that _I_ gave him in the hallway just now. Can you believe that idiot?”

Ruff’s usually cheerful face darkened. “I told you, no one gets to say stuff like that about Tuff except me.”

Eret, ignoring this criticism, gave her a nudge. Astrid could’ve kneed him in the groin right then and there. “Come on, love, they’re packing the bus downstairs.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it.” Ruff shoved her sandal into the bag she’d been filling.

Eret turned to Astrid. “Want to come along, Hofferson? Always an extra seat on the bus for a girl like you.” She sneered at that phrase— _girl like you_.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a prior engagement.”

“Oh, right,” Ruff remembered, “The Heather thingy.”

“I promised Hiccup I’d go with him. Sort of.” A part of her had been trying to drum up some excuse all afternoon, but she had nothing, and she didn’t want to engender any suspicion from Hiccup. Not that there was anything to be suspicious of, but that boy, he had more than a few creative muscles in his body. Always sensing things that weren’t there.

“Ah,” said Eret loftily, “the things we do for relationships, right?” Before Astrid had a chance to vomit, Ruff kicked Eret.

“They’re not _dating_ , I told you.” Maybe Astrid could still fight the blush that had instantly started up on her cheeks. “They just had sex!” Or not.

“ _I did not have sex with Hiccup_.”

Both their heads snapped to look at her—Ruff puzzled, Eret amused. He liked to rile her, that fucker.

Ruff asked slowly, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Ruff, I’m _sure_ I did not have sex with him!” The anger stoked by her conversation with Heather the previous night swelled in Astrid’s chest. “What is _with_ people? We’re just friends. I never said I liked him, he weighs like—ninety pounds and dresses up as superheroes on the weekend.” _Hypocrite_ , but she had hidden her stint as Black Cat from Ruff, and if Eret knew, she’d scream.

“Easy,” said Eret, around a knowing smile.

Astrid tossed him a glare—she never appreciated being told to calm down—and leaned back against the doorjamb. “I’m pretty sure he’s going to fuck Heather tonight, anyway.”

“He’s into Heather?” Ruff’s eyes were wide, she was absorbing all this new gossip with true relish.

“I don’t know, but Heather’s into him.”

“He’s into Heather,” Eret confirmed. When both girls stared at him, he shrugged. “What? If anyone remotely attractive woman wants a bloke who looks like that, he wants her back. He counts his blessings. That’s how _we_ operate.”

Astrid smiled brilliantly at Ruff. “Okay, so, confirmed: men are pigs.”

“What if Heather wants him like, ironically?” Ruff wondered out loud. Ruff had been quick to label their other roommate _hipster_ the first week of term, and had not abandoned this understanding of Heather. Astrid had to admit, it made for a funny, satisfactorily humiliating image of her together with Hiccup. She shrugged, and turned to go back to her room.

“He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

* * *

“No tie,” Fishlegs told Hiccup.

“I thought the tie was classy.” It was a _skinny_ tie, too, that was supposed to be fashionable or something.

His friend gave him a withering look. It was a bizarre thing to see on Fishlegs, but somehow apt. “It’s a freshman theatre showcase, Hiccup, not the Kennedy Center Honors.”

Hiccup, not knowing what this meant, nodded. “You said it. No tie.” So he removed the thing from his neck and took another look in the hallways’ long mirror. The tucked-in button-down and sports jacket would have to be classy enough. He went about trying to slick his hair into something reasonably neat—it had needed a trim weeks ago, and he still hadn’t gone.

Fishlegs, watching him primp, frowned. “I have never seen you so vain before, Hiccup. It’s quite unbecoming.” Hiccup turned to his friend, and sighed.

“Not vain, Fish, just don’t want to embarrass anyone.”

“Like who?”

Instantly he thought of Astrid, but considering they’d now run around together in costumes, she was probably beyond embarrassment. A more likely candidate was Heather, who he imagined sipping wine with her drama friends, all immaculately dressed. God, maybe he ought to wear the tie after all? “Just—never mind, okay?”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” snapped Fishlegs, and he trotted into the kitchen, leaving Hiccup to stare at himself for another disenchanting minute, until he heard a knock at the front door. He rushed to get it, but Fish was already there, letting Astrid in.

Hiccup said, without thinking, “You’re in a dress.”

And so she was—a silky, navy blue number with a sweetheart neckline, an A-line skirt, and fluttery cap sleeves—three years of sewing had taught him enough to identify clothes, even if he had trouble dressing himself accordingly. And it was a nice dress.

“You have skin on your legs,” remarked Fishlegs, in awe. Astrid scowled at both of them.

“Okay, let’s all just pick our jaws up off the floor.” Red-faced, Fishlegs reseated himself at the kitchen table. “Thank you for _almost_ managing to say I look nice.” 

“You do, you look nice,” Hiccup offered, and she met his eye for a second, but glanced away.

“Are you coming, Fishlegs?”

“As much as I would love to watch a bunch of self-important teenagers sing songs from _Gypsy_ all night, I’m going to pass.”

At the incredible sass, Astrid gave Hiccup a scandalized look. He raised his hands— _he’s been like this all night._

“Let’s get going, then,” she told him.

Hiccup pulled on his coat as they departed the elevator, and they walked downtown to the theatre, exhales frosty on the cold almost-winter night.

* * *

Hiccup would’ve said there were not very many people at the show, except that afterwards, getting backstage was like trying to navigate Times Square in high tourist season—suffocating hot, and he kept getting shoved places he did not want to be. What he had misunderstood about Heather’s program was  _everything_ —she did not belong to the demure, serious, mock-turtleneck’d school of acting. Heather did  _musical_ theatre, and musical theatre people, he was discovering, were of an entirely different breed.

To his left, a male voice sang the song Heather had performed: _I don’t wanna show off no more,_ _I don’t wanna sing tunes no more_. Astrid left him after the curtain call to use the bathroom, promising she’d meet him backstage, but that was twenty minutes ago and there was not a blonde braid in sight. _I don’t wanna ride moons no more_. He kept making his way down the narrow, packed hallway toward the dressing room. A laughing girl elbowed him in the stomach. _I don’t wanna show off._

“Hiccup!”

There, waving to him above the crowd, was Heather. She beamed at him; her face was shiny and pink, like she had just washed it. He took a deep breath and fought past two people who appeared to be tackling one another, until she could grab his shoulder.

“Hey!” he said, above the din, “that was great, you were so good.”

“Thank you!” And she threw her arms around him—a hug. As if he weren’t sweating through his jacket already, he grew a fraction hotter, and his belly tightened. Could she feel him shaking through his limp effort to return the embrace?

She pulled away, still beaming. “Astrid’s here too, she went to the bathroom, she’ll be right…” His phone vibrated in his pocket; a text. Heather’s smile widened by a fraction. He hoped that meant this was good news—he sometimes suspected he’d missed a tension between the two girls, but he couldn’t be sure. “Just a sec,” he said, and checked his phone.

It was from Astrid. _Line for the bathroom was crazy so I left… sorry to ditch. Have fun with Heather_

He stared at the message. There was something fishy about this, too—Astrid had _ditched_ him? Disloyal was not exactly the first word he’d use to describe her.

He looked up at Heather, waiting patiently for his attention. “She left. I’m sorry, I didn’t… Maybe she felt sick or—”

“It’s fine.” She said this almost eagerly, and then noticed the confusion on Hiccup’s face. “I mean, Astrid can do what she wants. We can go out the back way, it’s wild in here.” Her hand slinked around his arm. This night was proving mayhem, he needed to sit down, or something, and clear his head. But maybe the fresh air would help. He nodded, and let himself be led to a fire exit; they stumbled out into an alley, and the doors clunked shut behind them. Suddenly all the noise was distant—the scream of the fire engine a block away, people crossing the street. Heather heaved a sigh, and pulled on her coat. “Much better. Let’s get out of here.”

The two of them strolled back to their building without a lull in the conversation. He liked talking to Heather—she had interesting things to say, she asked him questions about what he liked and what he wanted to do in the future. Not always questions he knew how to answer, but it seemed like a million years since he’d met anyone as down-to-earth as her. She said exactly what she meant, and she said it well, and whatever it was tended to be very smart. And she made _him_ feel smart.

He was reveling in this incredible frankness when they stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor, and she did it again. She said exactly what she meant.

“So, why don’t you come back to my room?”

He’d been sailing through their time together, sea breeze in his hair, not a cloud in sight, and here was a hole in the boat. He’d struck an iceberg.

“Come back to your room?”

“Yeah.” Heather assessed him, an eyebrow raised, endeared but skeptical. She had lovely green eyes, and a wonderful thin mouth that folded around her words like the movement of a petal underwater. “I can check to see if there’s anyone in the living room first, if you don’t want… someone to see you come in?”

Hiccup laughed shortly. _Someone_. What would— _get over this girl_. Get over _that_ girl. Have fun with Heather, she’d said; suddenly he understood. Someone had stabbed him in the thoughts with a fork, the way you stabbed a microwave dinner’s plastic to let out the steam. He felt himself deflating, pressure going down. _Just do it_. He inhaled.

“I would love to.”

* * *

Astrid didn’t go back to that apartment. She was no idiot.

Instead she walked to Washington Square and sat in the library for an hour, flipping through an MCAT practice test. The sense she got from it was, that shit would be hard as hell and she ought to cherish her lame writing requirement and confusing survey of Latin American history.

At eleven on a Friday night, the crowd in the library depressed her out of the building. She got bubble tea from the Korean fast food place on the corner, and meandered back to the dorm as slow as she could, mincing her steps: ball of the foot, then the heel, then lift, then again.

She sat in the lobby, finishing the tea, and then went up to her floor. Someone’s stereo blared off on another plane of existence. From where she stood frozen, she could see the door to 8G.

Lightheaded, Astrid turned on her heel and went the opposite way, toward 8B. She knocked, and a familiar face answered the door.

“Hey, Fish. Are you up for an episode of _Scandal_?”


	10. Sex Quizzes In Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the tremendous response to the last chapter, positive or otherwise. I know this is a rough direction for the story but I promise you that I’ll make it worth your while. Some sexual language in this one but I wouldn't call it NSFW.

Hiccup Haddock, haver-of-girlfriend.

 _No—you don’t have a girlfriend, you just have a date_.

“Wow, do you think _this_ one is big enough?”

Astrid had pulled on a giant puffer coat and, grinning, spun around to show it off. Hiccup started slightly—he had been daydreaming, staring at the red-and-white sign reading _Women’s Outerwear_.

“Huh.” The store’s fluorescents scrubbed at his eyes. “Well. Considering you thought this constituted a winter jacket—” He raised the thin peacoat he’d agreed to hold while she tried on replacements. “—I don’t know if you’re qualified to be judgmental, here.”

“I thought it would be enough,” she pouted.

“You know this isn’t SoCal, Az.”

“Don’t call it SoCal, Hic.” Looking not unlike a red marshmallow, she poked her insulated belly. “I feel like I could go run into a bunch of sharp objects and be fine.”

He shook his head to dislodge the word _girlfriend_ , like shaking water from his ears. “Yeah?” They should get sushi. He would take Heather to get sushi. Heather seemed like the kind of girl who would really like sushi. It should be a casual thing. He wouldn’t dress up. He needed to find a casual sushi place. But still nice. Nice casual. But not so nice she would think she had to dress up, because he wasn’t going to dress up. Unless he did dress up. He could lie and say he’d just come from a job interview if she wasn’t dressed up too. But it would be bad to lie. On their first date. Maybe they should get Italian instead—

“Hey.” Astrid had come to lean on the clothes rack nearest him, arms folded along the top, chin resting in the crook of her elbow, squinting. “What’s up?”

“Up?” he echoed stupidly. Great, now he was distracted to the point of rudeness. It had been four straight days of this, the constant monologue, departing conversations.

Astrid peered at him. “Is this about this weekend?” This weekend. He stared back at her but saw Heather’s face, smirking, laughing about the sushi. Astrid pursed her lips, then asked slowly, “How was it?”

“How was what?” he replied, unthinking.

Astrid rolled her eyes—Hiccup’s face felt warm, but maybe they had the heat turned up in the Target? “You know,” she intoned.

“It’s hot in here, huh.” He craned his neck, looking past her, hoping to see Tuff returning from the grocery section with one of those huge cartons of Goldfish. No such luck.

Astrid threw up her giant, puffy arms, glaring at him. “I’m fine and I’m literally wearing an oven.” 

Hiccup eyed her for a moment, then let out a groan, twisting his hand around the cool metal of the clothes rack. “Nothing happened, okay?”

“Tuff said you had a girlfriend.”

“Tuff said _what?_ ”

She leaned back, deflecting responsibility for this blight. “That’s just what he said.”

“I may have…” Hiccup sort of slumped into the parka selection. “I may have wondered aloud about how—crazy it would be, if I was the first person in the apartment to get a girlfriend.”

She looked at him with wide eyes for a split second, then smirked. “So nothing happened, huh?”

He saw Astrid again, in a flash: the short hair where her cheek met her ear had curled into a vortex. It looked oddly deliberate. “Yeah. Well.”

She asked again, leaning toward him with earnest sympathy, “So how _was_ it?”

And now a recollection ousted the tired, deafening debate over sushi on private repeat—the bathroom stall flashed across his mind. Astrid, who had almost been… asking him how _it_ was. He could have laughed, he could have locked himself in the changing room of this Target superstore and refused to come out. _College will be hard_ , they’d said, _you’ll have exams!_

“We just kissed.” He could see Heather’s room, lit by the off-season Christmas lights crawling across her furniture. He could feel his own voice in his throat, as he’d drawn away from her, saying, _let’s slow down_.

“Oh.” Astrid straightened up, processing this information. “But you did, you kissed.”

“We’re going on a date. Friday night.” Sushi. Dress up.

“That’s exciting,” she said, doing a little too much to seem properly supportive. It only embarrassed him more, and she must’ve seen that in the way he ducked his head. “Do you not want to talk to me about this?”

 “Well, it’s just—”

“Because I’m the best person to give you advice, in this situation.”

The confidence with which she delivered this statement drew him from his anxiety. “Wait, how do you figure?”

“Well, okay.” Astrid started to extract herself from the puffer coat. “We’ve kissed, so there’s no like, weird unanswered question there, right?” (The noise that came out of him did so with such force that it was more of a strangled sob, which Astrid bluntly ignored. Maybe she thought he was just scandalized that she’d mention it. Which he was, but—but everything _else_ about that question, too.) “I know all—well, I know two of your secrets, and they are pretty significant ones.” _No weird unanswered question there_. Try forty questions! A hundred! “And I’m a girl who’s great at sex, which gives me a leg up over, hm, _all_ your other friends.” Now free of the cumbersome jacket, she did a little pose, like Vanna White. “See? I’m the best relationship counselor you’ll ever have.”

He was smiling in spite of himself. If he had to lose Astrid _that_ way, he had her friendship. A wave of intense affection came over Hiccup; he tried to imagine coming to Fish or Tuff with his Heather-related concerns and surmised, quickly, that she had a point. “Yeah. All right. Can’t argue with that.”

“Okay,” she said, beaming, “let’s start with Dr. Hofferson’s sex tips for virgin boys—”

Oh, no. “Oh no—”

“No, this is good—”

“You know, I think _I’m_ good, actually—”

“Shut up, Haddock.” Whimpering, he removed her coat from his arm and draped it over his head. Her certainty about his being a virgin was unsurprising, and somehow still humiliating. “Okay, first off,” came Astrid’s muffled voice from the other side of the fabric. “Know the anatomy. This isn’t 1965. Google the clitoris.”

He ripped the coat from his face, scowling. “Astrid, we are in _public_.”

“Yeah, so?” She waved to some other customers, perusing the next section over. “This is free advice. Stuff everyone should know.” She nudged him in the shoulder. “May I continue?”

“Could I stop you?”

Immune to his sass, she went on, “Two, go down on her. You will be terrible at it but she’ll appreciate the effort.”

“Oh my god,” he muttered, looking to the carpet for some kind of assistance.

“ _Which_ brings us to three.” Astrid paused, and he glanced up. She gave him a smile, well meaning, gentle. “Listen. And if she’s not talking, ask. She’s the only person who can _actually_ make you good at sex.” After a moment, he smiled back. Astrid cleared her throat and grabbed the puffy coat. “There’ll be a quiz later, so I hope you were taking notes.”

“Thanks. I love sex quizzes in Target,” he said, hoping the sarcasm disguised the weird hitch in his voice.

“Just looking out for my roommate. And you, I guess.” She held up the puffer, grin splitting her face. “What if I bought this?”

“I would have trouble being seen with you in public.”

“Perfect,” she joked, and tucked it under her arm. They started to leave the section, walking toward the register. He felt raw, as though they’d both just witnessed something gory. Her advice, on first pass, embarrassed him for its lack of shame; now that he turned the suggestions over in his head, everything looked a little more—vivid.

“We’re still just getting to know each other,” he thought out loud.

Astrid gave him a sideways grin. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t think we’ll… We haven’t even been on our first date yet.” This was his way of rejecting her advice—rejection meant not having to consider how she’d come to know these wild truths, or whether Heather knew them too.

“Right. It’s your first time.” Astrid said this as though she had understood him, but he didn’t see how.

“It’s my first time?”

“You want it to be with someone you really like.”

Yes. He wanted to know Heather better before he thought about—that. So Astrid _had_ understood, even better than he did himself. He wondered if Heather would get that, too; she had seemed a little shocked when he’d stopped her on Friday, but he had to get it right, this time. “You’re not making fun of me,” he realized.

Stopping short in the aisle, Astrid turned to him. “Oh, Hiccup.” She had on that smirk again, the kind of smirk that made him have to crush a couple thoughts, a tiny flare-up of feelings he was getting over, with hard work. “Easy target. I like a challenge.”

* * *

He did it to practice for Heather, and squashed any consideration of his own selfishness. He’d always said: it was his disability, his right to tell whom he pleased.

He sat them all down in the living room that Saturday. Astrid had been right, the longer he waited, the harder this would get. So he’d gathered Fish, and Tuff, and even Snot, who none of them had even seen much since he got in with the Delta Psi crowd.

“Who died?” Tuff had asked merrily, feet up on the coffee table.

Hiccup began, “So, gang. Remember how we were all so excited to get the handicapped suite, because of the huge bathroom, with the bench in the shower?”

Fishlegs sighed. “I love the shower bench.”

“Well, funny story about that.” And he took a seat, and told them the rest. And Astrid had one less secret to know about him.

* * *

Astrid made a countdown on the dry erase board in the kitchen.  _Thirty days until Thanksgiving break_ . _Twenty days until Thanksgiving break. Ten._

“You _have_ to come out tonight,” demanded Ruff, standing over her. She had curled up on the couch beneath her fuzzy blanket, pajama-clad and un-made-up. Astrid drew closer to her laptop, warm on her belly.

“I’m watching a documentary on the failures of the American health care system,” she said, as if this were a perfectly sound excuse.

“That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

“I have a pint of Cherry Garcia in the freezer!”

Ruff threw her head back and groaned. “This is so stupid. You didn’t go out for Halloween. You didn’t go out last weekend, even though it was Eret’s _birthday_.” Astrid rolled her eyes; like she actually cared about Eret’s birthday. “Come _on_.”

“I’ve had a meet every week.”

“Do you have one this week?”

Astrid hesitated before saying, honestly, “No.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Ruff glared down at her, expectant. Astrid squirmed under her gaze. Finally, her roommate insisted, “What’s going _on_?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Then come out tonight!”

Frustrated, Astrid sat up. “Why does it even matter, you’re going to spend the entire night with your boyfriend, anyway—” _Couples_ , she thought bitterly, trying not to get any more specific than that. “— _everyone’s_ just going to be involved with their—whatever.” She snapped her computer shut.

“Maybe I don’t want to spend the entire night doing that.” Ruff inflected her reply as you would a plain counterargument, but Astrid heard a note of discomfort beneath it. She glanced up at her roommate. Ruff was chewing her lip.

“Ugh.” Astrid’s head fell to her hands, feeling herself being worn down.

“Maybe you could get a ‘whatever’,” Ruff suggested, grinning.

“I don’t want a _whatever_.”

“Seems like you could use a little stress relief, though.”

They might not even be there, Astrid realized. This party was probably at Eret’s, and Hiccup hated Eret almost as much as she did. Probably more, because Eret couldn’t mollify him with being not so horrible to look at.

Three weeks. It had been three long, fraught weeks.

She’d seen Heather, she’d seen Hiccup, but she hadn’t seen them together. She didn’t know if she’d be able to maintain her aura of maximum cool-with-it-ness if they were… Well. In her best display of friendship, she supported him—played the cool girl friend, shrewd knower of female things, dispensing the advice he needed but wouldn’t ask for—all the while trying to forget that he’d chosen for this honor, of all people, Heather. She didn’t think she could be quite so discerning if she had to see the two of them attached at the mouth.

“All right, fine,” she grunted, tugging her bangs. “A little stress relief.”

Some hours later, crammed into the hottest corner of Eret’s Chelsea apartment, she thought, _I’m stressed_.

It was a party like all the other parties. Maybe a little less crowded. She could have maybe carried on a conversation, if she’d had a megaphone. Ruff, regardless of what she’d been feeling earlier, disappeared with Eret almost immediately. She left Astrid leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping water from a red cup. If only Snot had been there to yammer in her ear, it would’ve been a real callback to that first party of the year. That felt like a million years ago—what had Hiccup said to her that was so rude? Something about D&D not being her kind of thing. She wondered if this would be her weekend, every weekend, for the next four years: standing to the side and not drinking and wondering where your friends had gone. Being alone. Being alone when you could’ve been alone watching a documentary, that no one had any right to make you feel bad about finding fascinating! She didn’t think she could live with that, something would have to change, eventually.

Looking into the living room, she saw the front door open, and recognized the flash of mussed auburn hair and his skeletal, ruddy form. For half a second, she had to close her eyes; _of course_.

Behind him came the swinging hazel presence of Heather. The two of them spoke animatedly, laughing at the surrounding crowd, leaning toward one another. The writhing body of people obstructed Astrid’s view, but her hand might have lighted on his forearm, or he was reaching to touch her shoulder. They looked like people who had been together for a million years, and it was hard to remind herself that they weren’t even fucking. Yet, anyway.

He talked out the corner of his mouth to her, but Hiccup’s eyes were scanning the room. They spied her in the kitchen, and he raised a hand in greeting. The music suddenly grew louder, as though someone had slipped off her headphones.

Astrid turned to the garden of alcohol overwhelming the kitchen counter, poured a shot of vodka, and took it. She stomped out of the kitchen and tried the door to one of the bedrooms, where they’d all piled their coats when they came in. There was a guy sleeping on the bed, pants around his ankles, surrounded by no less than thirty coats. The window was open and the air stung her bare arms. She pushed the guy aside until she found her big red parka, and then paused by the window. She spied some dark metal—a fire escape.

The only thing to do was climb out the window. A part of her had been waiting many years to climb out a window, she realized.

Except that she nearly fell three stories to her death once she got outside—there was someone else on the fire escape, his short legs dangling off the edge.

“Fish,” breathed Astrid, in relief. “I didn’t know you were out here.”

“Yeah,” he said, staring sadly at the dark windows of the building across from Eret’s. In the past couple of weeks, Hiccup being busy with Heather, she had struck up more of a friendship with his soft, dweeby roommate. She knew more about him, now—that he was a soon-to-be English major, and a writer himself, who hailed from New Jersey—and Fish had gotten over what might’ve been a fear of her, to seem comfortable enough that they could watch _Scandal_ and have arguments about who, if anyone, could ever be as horrible as Fitz.

“What are you doing?” She took a seat beside him on the metal balcony, letting her own legs dangle next to his. The alley below them was dark, and faintly the smell of urine wafted upwards.

“Thinking about Robert Frost.”

“What about him?”

“ _Before I built a wall_ ,” he quoted, “ _I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense_.”

She didn’t recognize this, but turned the words over in her head for a moment. Her gut told her what this was. “Did Hiccup…”

Fishlegs turned to her, scowling. “You knew? He told you before any of us?”

She winced; she had been afraid to ask for just this reason. “In all fairness, I kinda forced it out of him.”

He looked back out across the gap, at the empty windows. In the street, a cop car flew by, wailing, shedding them in blue and red light for a half-second before it was gone. A late, busy night in New York.

“Isn’t it weird,” said Fish pensively, “that we’ve all only known each other a few months? But we don’t have anyone else, so it feels like forever.”

She hesitated. She was not a girl who spoke eloquently about these abstractions of life; she left the postulating to Fish, to Hiccup and Heather who would chat about their educations over breakfast. Astrid liked a solid problem. She liked to hold it in her hands and turn it over and see the scratches where people had tried to crack it open before. “Fish. I think you and Hiccup are going to be fine.” And that was the best she could do.

“I know we are. That’s not what I meant.” He gave her a pathetic smile. “I just forgot I don’t know him that well.”

Astrid thought of what she knew about Hiccup, the tapestry she’d knit together over days and weeks and months. She thought of his cat and his leg and his mom and his dad in the sofa commercials. She thought of his weird little sketchbook and she thought of him watching Heather on stage at the showcase, lips parted, like he’d never seen a woman dance before. And she thought of him coming into the party just now—and she’d walked away.

She patted Fish on the shoulder. “Yeah. I think I get that feeling, too.”

The cold got to her and she pulled on her red coat, just in time for a series of wooden bangs, like doors being flung open, to issue from inside the apartment. Then the shouting started up—Astrid and Fishlegs exchanged a worried glance, as the noises grew louder.

Ruff’s head appeared in the window.

“ASTRID, WE ARE _LEAVING_.”

Astrid scrambled to her feet, clinging to the fire escape’s thin rail. “What the fuck is going on?”

“It’s—come in here,” said Ruff, dragging her back inside. Fishlegs followed shortly after, looking nauseous. “Eret is a turd,” Ruff announced.

“What?”

“I’ve told him a _thousand_ times no one gets to talk about Tuff like that—” Ruff had a hand around Astrid’s wrist and drew her out of the coat room, into the kitchen, shouting. “—but he _never fucking listened_ —”

Eret’s voice rang out above the music. “FINE, LEAVE, AND TAKE YOUR IDIOT BROTHER WITH YOU, YOU IDIOT.” Tuff stood, wasted and confused, by the front door, and Astrid made sure to help him out as the four of them escaped into the hallway, evading Eret’s cry, claiming he didn’t care, he didn’t care at all. 


	11. Everybody Hates Hiccup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to caution you all that this chapter is emotionally heavy, and put out a trigger warning for discussion of addiction. I hope these scenes make sense for everyone.

When the four of them took the subway home that night, Astrid was the only one to point it out: “We just ditched Hiccup and Heather there.”

Ruff stood wrapped around a pole in the center of the car, glaring at the space above Fish’s head. “You can’t ditch a couple.” She said the word _couple_ with venom, and her thoughts of Eret were nearly audible in the half empty train.

Only Tuff, seated beside Astrid and gradually sobering up, caught the look on her face at this description of Hiccup and Heather. He reached out a big, ungraceful hand and patted her shoulder. “I bet this sucks for you,” he said plainly, and on any other day she might’ve punched him for insinuating she had an investment in their relationship, or any sort of feelings at all. But Ruff was distant on her planet of grief and Fishlegs had dozed off and Tuff seemed genuine, like an idiot savant, looking right into her. He had some weird, deep, philosophical stoner wisdom; only with the clarity of his understanding and the total absence of judgment, as they shared an oddly private moment on the subway at one o’clock in the morning, did Astrid accept that she was a little bent out of shape about Hiccup’s new romantic venture.

“Thanks, Tuff.” He nodded and, as if to underscore his utter cluelessness about everything other than her emotional state, started trying to lick his elbow. Noticing this, Ruff swatted him across the head and then, in a beat of strange sisterly compassion, straightened his ratty beanie. It occurred to Astrid that she didn’t know many girls who’d dump a guy for talking shit about their brother. She thought of her own brother, who was fourteen and a bit of smartass, like many Hoffersons before him. Watching Ruff and Tuff made the prospect of going home in a week a smidge brighter—it was very bright, now, almost blinding.

They got back to the building and Fish and Tuff left to go back to their place, leaving Astrid and Ruff alone in 8G, where they sat on the couch until half past two talking about Eret, and about Ruff’s romantic history, which was longer and decidedly more fucked up than Astrid had known. She brought her roommate the occasional watered-down drink, since Ruff couldn’t taste the difference and a hangover wouldn’t improve the morning, and then helped her to bed. Astrid was brushing her teeth when Heather came in, not fifteen minutes later. Hiccup’s girlfriend drifted by the open bathroom door, making eye contact with Astrid, who gave her a nod, then spit in the sink. When she looked up, the hallway was empty.

Before she slept, she changed fixed her countdown on the fridge. _Nine days until Thanksgiving break_.

 _Five. Three. One._ And she erased the board before heading to the airport.

* * *

“I don’t think it’s fair that he gets you for all the big holidays.”

Hiccup squinted at his mother across her little kitchen table, cluttered with mismatched dishes, vegetables and stuffing and thinly sliced meat from the bird. Smallest one they could find and the two of them would be having turkey sandwiches for days. “I’m sorry, are we not eating Thanksgiving dinner right now?”

“You know they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so it’s not the same,” replied Valka, keeping her voice level with some obvious difficulty.

“I already have my plane ticket.”

“He could afford to change it.”

“I’m not asking him to do that.”

“I’m only saying, dear, you’ll be there for Christmas _and_ New Years, two weeks, so when you come home you’re only here for a week—”

“Which with the week of Thanksgiving, makes the two of you even!” He forced a smile. His mother hesitated and took a sip of wine. Hiccup sighed, and frowned at his potatoes. “It’s the only time I can go to Scotland, all right, Mom?”

“That’s not true, you have the summer, and if I know your father he’ll want you to work at the company then anyway—” She set her glasses down, shaking her finger, and he could see she was going to go off about yet another point of contention and he’d find himself taking yet another reasoned stand, like every time.

“You know, Mom,” said Hiccup, dropping his fork, “If you two could just be friends, you could come with me for Christmas and we could all be together. Like a family.” Valka didn’t meet his challenging gaze—probably just as well.

“I just want to see my son.”

He sat back. “What, am I invisible right now? I’m here, all you want to do is complain about Dad.”

She observed, in a low voice, “He had you for ten years.”

“Because you weren’t _here_.”

“You could’ve come with me.”

“I was eight, nobody asked me what I wanted to do.” Valka, open-mouthed, only shook her head. “ _Yeah_ ,” he went on, feeling himself knotting at her selfishness, “I could’ve gone to a different school in a different country every _year_ while you took whatever crazy far-flung research position you wanted.” She shifted in her seat, cleared her throat.

“I don’t see why we need to rehash this.”

He grimaced, and leaned over his meal, which had grown a degree colder as they argued. “You brought it up.” As he chewed, there was silence, and then he swallowed and added, “I need you to watch Toothless while I’m in Scotland.” The explanation was a version of the same lie he’d fed her for the past three months, “My friend who lives off-campus with the pet friendly place, the one that’s been keeping him, is going away for winter break.”

“All right. I’ll hide him from the super.” The awkwardness reigned. Val took a deep breath, and looked squarely at her son. “I am sorry, Hiccup. We should enjoy our time together.”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“How is school?” she asked, tone lifting, starting to cut her meat vigorously. “How are your friends?”

“Good,” he said automatically, and then saw the opportunity—necessity, even—to tell his mother what had actually been going on in his life over the past month. With the gorier details scrubbed out, obviously. She was having her semester gathering for her advisees next week, and he’d planned on bringing a date, he didn’t want to give his mother a heart attack. So he closed his eyes, and said, “I have a girlfriend.” They were good words, he liked their rhythm and weight on his tongue.

He heard a fork clatter, and opened his eyes—Valka sat there with the biggest grin on her face, trying to recover her utensil in a hurry. “Oh, Hiccup.” And then she actually stood up and leaned over the table to kiss and hug him in a motherly frenzy, which Hiccup protested at length, until she’d sat back down across from him.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mumbled, trying to pat back down the hair she’d mussed.

“Of course it’s a _big deal_ ,” she gasped, “It’s your first love, that’s so wonderful, dear.”

His _first love_? He nodded, but was Heather really his first love? She was his first a lot of things, for sure, but love… She’d probably run scared if he uttered the word in her presence. It had only been a month.

“So, who is she? Tell me,” demanded Valka, now back to her food and wine with gusto.

“Uh, well, you know Astrid—”

“Oh, good!” His mother shrugged with relief, eyes glowing. Hiccup’s mouth hung open. “I was _hoping_ , I could tell she liked you when I saw you—”

“She’s Astrid’s roommate!” He spit this out. Anything to stop the train before it ran them both over. Val’s face fell, she deflated a few inches, a mother reigned in. “Her name is Heather,” he explained. Best to barrel through the discomfort, not to think about his mom being able to _tell_ about Astrid, he’d thought he could _tell_ about Astrid too—yeah, none of that. Heather. “I’m thinking of bringing her to the holiday party next week, so you’ll get to meet her.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Valka. “I look forward to it.” She had the look of a woman desperate to maintain the same enthusiasm she’d had for his would-be relationship with a preferable girl. He knew that look, he got it from Fishlegs, he got it from the twins, he got it from his fucking barista probably, and from Astrid herself. Could they not see that Heather was smart, and hot, and talented? Couldn’t they see that the two of them, they _liked_ each other? It just made him want to want her more.

“Cool,” he said under his breath, and started to help her clear the table.

* * *

 

The period between Thanksgiving was a precious two and a half weeks, which gave them all just enough time to get worked up to the point of non-function about exams before they had to take them.

The drama classes had all their final presentations before the actual exam period, which left him on his own most nights the first week back, with Heather trapped running lines at a classmate’s or in some panicked last minute rehearsal. When he offered to come along and read quietly on the sidelines, she’d come up with a barrage of excuses, which he supposed was her trying to spare his feelings. She didn’t want him there. That was fine—he’d only thought they might study together, he could get work done on his own—but by the time Friday rolled around, Hiccup had spent more time with Toothless that week than any other living creature. He was so socially starved, he could’ve been persuaded to visit another nightclub, or a nightmarish party at Eret’s place—anything for a little human contact.

But when he wandered into Fishlegs’s room that night, his friend was talking to the computer, and shooed him. “I’m skyping someone,” he said, then looked at the screen again. Hiccup heard a girl’s voice on the other end. “Oh, it’s nobody,” Fish told the voice.

Nobody? “Do you want to watch a movie when you’re done?” Hiccup asked, in a stage whisper, but Fish didn’t seem to hear—when he looked back to Hiccup, he didn’t seem to understand why he was still standing there.

“Can you close the door on your way out?”

Hiccup sighed, and did as he was asked.

He tried Tuff’s room next, a little knock on the door. His roommate answered and the smell of marijuana greeted Hiccup.

“Hey, man, friend, man friend,” said Tuff, for some reason shaking his hand.

“What are you up to tonight, Tuff?” Hiccup had to end the handshake, patting Tuff’s wrist.

“Studying for my take-home exam tomorrow, friend.”

Hiccup frowned, he sensed an inconsistency here. “Aren’t you high right now?”

“It’s a philosophy exam,” explained Tuff, like this should clear things up. “You wanna hit? I feel like Nietzsche would be your _boy_.” From what Hiccup knew of Nietzsche, this did not sound promising.

“I think I’ll pass.”

“No, I think _I’ll_ pass.” Tuff laughed. “Classic wordplay.”

Hiccup struggled not to crack up. “I’ll see you later.” He gave his roommate a wave, and Tuff closed the door. So he was alone again.

He didn’t even try Snot’s door. No light came from beneath it, and he doubted Snot would want his company, anyway. He was beginning to doubt that _anyone_ wanted his company.

Returning to his room, he noted the silence in the hall. Through to the living area it radiated emptiness—he had seen this place crawling with people, he had seen it completely desecrated in the aftermath, he had once watched Tuff ride down the hall on a bike. With both Tuff and Fish holed away in their rooms and Snot likely gone for the night, he kind of had the place to himself. A Christmas miracle, come early.

So he grabbed Toothless and sat on the sofa, cat on his chest. He watched the nature channel for a bit until what was basically baboon porn came on, and then switched to a _Frasier_ rerun. Made it through one episode before the laugh track and the cat’s warmth lulled him to sleep.

Hiccup woke sometime later, with a start, Toothless bounding from his chest to curl up beneath a side table. He felt jarred, like something must’ve woke him—and then he heard it. A knock at the door. A bang, really, a series of them. Frantic. Pulse quickening, he swept into the kitchen, and threw open the door, crushing the New-York-bred instinct to check the peephole first.

Shockingly, there was Astrid. More shockingly, there was Astrid, wearing a huge t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms, braid mussed as though she’d wrung it out, wet cheeks puffed and blotchy, eyes red, make-up smeared. _Crying_. Upset. Very upset.

“Astrid,” he breathed, hearing how heavy it was with concern, hearing a buzz in his ears.

She shot by him, into the apartment, and he closed the door behind them. For a moment he only saw the back of her, standing in the middle of his kitchen, fists balled at her sides and shoulders rising in ragged, deep breaths. Upset, he realized, but also _angry_. When she turned to face him, she scowled, jaw tense.

“He came here.”

“Who came here?” Hiccup spoke fast, trying to keep up.

“Ben. My ex. He came here, he—” She pointed past him, to the hall, maybe indicating her apartment. “—he fucking showed up here, high out of his _mind_ , and acted like it was _my_ fault, because I—” Astrid let out a furious groan, and stormed over to rifle through the kitchen cabinets. Hiccup didn’t understand—

“What, he’s here? In New York? I thought he was at—”

“I don’t fucking know, he’s loaded, he goes where he wants.” She drew out a bottle of vodka that he thought belonged to Snot, and took a swig straight from it. “All I know is that he was at my door half an hour ago and I called the cops.”

This hit him like a slap in the face. “You called the _cops_?” In Hiccup’s mind, having had very little to do with the police in his lifetime, their involvement raised the stakes, set off warning bells.

Astrid turned to him, glaring over her vodka, still sniveling. “He was drunk and high and screaming at me. I did the right thing.”

Well. When she put it _that_ way, he shrunk a little, embarrassed. “Yeah. Right. You did.”

She seemed to take a lot from his reassurance, as confident as she had been an instant before, and started to nod and pace the kitchen. “When I went home on break, he… he texted me, and he wanted to talk, so I had coffee with him and…” Astrid paused. The thought of Astrid and her ex had always disquieted Hiccup—it frustrated him that he could not be there, that his temporal absence from Astrid’s life at that point kept him from stopping the tragedy before it ruined her. No, not _ruined_ her. Hurt her. Astrid was the furthest thing from ruined. “He wanted to get back together,” she said, in a clogged, hampered voice. “He wanted another chance, he said he was sober, and I said no. I said I’d moved on…” Water welled in her eyes again. Hiccup took a step toward her with outstretched arms, guided the vodka out of her hands, set it aside—as she fell against him she was mumbling, sobbing, “He was sober. It’s my fault.”

“No,” Hiccup told the crook of Astrid’s neck. The sobs shook her, he held on tight.

“But the last time, it was because I didn’t want to…” The crying and the way she spoke into his shirt distorted her words, but they were close enough he could hear. “I didn’t want to go to school with him, and then, now—”

“He’s sick, Az.”

“I should have loved him more.” He shook his head, _stop, stop_. “If I’d loved him more he’d be okay.”

“It’s not your fault, it’s a disease, he needs _help_ , a doctor—”

“I’m a fucking _bitch_ , I’m a bitch, I don’t deserve—”

Hiccup drew away from her, hands firm on her shoulders. He’d clenched his jaw so tight he thought it might hurt tomorrow, and he looked her dead in the eye. “Astrid. You’re not a bitch. It’s not your fault.” She kept crying, silently now, the water dripping off her chin. “You deserve everything,” he said, wiping her face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “He deserves to get better, but you can’t do that, you can’t change that, that’s not your fault.” The strength in his own voice surprised him. Maybe the years he’d spent blaming himself for all the shit that had come down on him were finally paying off.

Astrid didn’t speak at first, but the tears stopped running, and she sucked in a huge breath. They kept the firm eye contact, like a lifeline. “It’s not my fault,” she repeated, slow, squeezing the words to get closer to their meaning. _It’s. Not. My. Fault._

“Yeah. Hey,” he smiled, “That’s great.” Leaving one hand on her shoulder, he moved to the fridge, and grabbed a pint of mint chocolate chip from the freezer. “Here. Come sit on the couch and pet Toothless and eat ice cream.”

This seemed to shake Astrid from her comfort. “Oh, no, no,” she backed away from him, toward the door, “I’m ruining your Friday night. Oh, you probably want to see Heather—”

“No, hey,” he drew her back to him, another hug. “Stay here. Heather’s busy, everyone’s busy. Just me and you. And Toothless.” Suddenly looking more exhausted than upset, Astrid let herself be led into the living room, where Hiccup brought her a blanket and a box of tissues and turned the volume back up on _Fraiser_. Astrid held the cat and licked down a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream, then Toothless crawled into Hiccup’s lap, and he felt her burrow under his arm, to rest her head on his shoulder.

“Don’t complain,” she whispered, with such a characteristic cocktail of standoffishness, embarrassment, and vulnerability, he nearly laughed. As if he’d ever complain about this, when she was so…

“You’re great, you know,” he whispered back. Astrid didn’t say anything at first—she kept her eyes on Niles Crane, on Daphne, on Frasier himself.  It struck him as important that she understand this, in the wake of all she’d said that night. A fear like hers, the fear of not being good enough, of failing people you love… one reassurance didn’t go far enough. “Seriously,” he added. “You’re amazing. And you deserve someone who’s going to make you feel that amazing.” He brushed away the hair that was falling down her face.

After a second, he heard a little sigh, and Astrid glanced up at him, smiling weakly. “I deserve everything.”

 


	12. The Last True Mouthpiece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a hard chapter. Just a reminder that this is a slow burn fic, this is an angsty fic, I’m not going to clean it up. Some of you might not like it, but this section is very important narratively, and it’s probably the absolute lowest point, so… we can only go up from here.

“You look nice,” Astrid told her reflection in the long mirror on the back of her door. Her eyes twisted shut; she smoothed the thick knit of the sweater across her stomach, and then the rougher corduroy of the tan skirt that hit just above her knees. She wore thick tights and neatly tied oxfords, too; never before had an outfit made her feel further from Los Angeles. She opened her eyes again. No change in the reflection. _This is dumb_ , she thought angrily, _you’re very pretty. Everyone always says._ Except that for the past few days, since Ben’s impromptu visit, she hadn’t felt it. Instead she was bloated, and her eyes were always sticky, like she had just been crying, only she hadn’t—not for a night or two, at least.

She sighed, and started to gather her things, a purse and her big red jacket. Her bed was covered in notes, papers, a heavy textbook. Her first exam was in three days: alternatively, the frantic immersion of studying soothed her and left her paralyzed by stress. School was better than thinking about the other problems in her life, but school was a problem in and of itself. Could she expect to make an A in everything when she felt like _this_? What would it mean for her medical school applications? Certainly the standard GPA for Harvard Med’s incoming class was 4.0, she had no wiggle room.

Biting back a swell of anxiety, Astrid collected the papers and swept them off the bed, so she wouldn’t have to consider their taunting letters when she arrived home later.

Heather waited for her in the living room. Hiccup was already at Dr. Larama’s—his mother’s—apartment, having gone to help her set up, but he’d insisted Astrid and Heather head over together. She had on a shimmery red velvet dress, dark eye make-up, and her glamorously tousled, jet black hair hung off her shoulders in dramatic waves. Like an edgy gothic princess. Suddenly Astrid sensed how frumpy her own outfit had turned, in an effort to seem mature when she wasn’t confident enough to expose herself. Too shy to flatter herself, she had gone the opposite direction, toward the aesthetic of a Yale-educated virgin.

She smiled awkwardly at Heather. Her roommate gave a quick nod, and they went into the hall and then the elevator.

Things between the girls remained uncomfortable. The month of November had passed in 8G with the cold outside mirroring their cold insistence on not making eye contact. Every so often, Heather would speak to her from a place of polite reconciliation, offering her some dinner or to throw her towels in with the load of laundry she had going. And Astrid declined, every time. Really, thinking of her aloofness toward Heather swarmed Astrid with guilt—how hard it was to remember that the other girl had asked her _permission_ , that this was not some property dispute? As they stood together in the elevator—Heather in her moto jacket and velvet dress and buckled black books, Astrid in her chunky sweater and bulky skirt with the puffy red coat—sadness and shame came over her. Hiccup wanted them to be friends. Heather wanted them to be friends. Astrid didn’t have time to be jealous. 

It was a freezing night in New York, and they walked to the train hugging themselves. A little snow had fallen a couple nights before and the dirty slush slicked the sidewalks, swirls of cigarette butts lit by the unwarm glare of the streetlamps and the beams of passing headlights.

In the subway station a man catcalled them—moving in tandem, Astrid and Heather flipped him off—

“Fuck off!”

“Screw you!”

Astrid froze; slowly, they turned to each other in astonished delight. Heather began to laugh and Astrid followed suit, until they were bumping into one another on the subway platform, losing it entirely. The mirth died away but they kept on the wide smiles, looking at one another with a new admiration. Maybe they had more in common than a boy and an apartment.

When she’d caught her breath, Astrid told her, beaming, “I like your dress.” With the week she’d been having, laughter came as a welcome reprieve.

Heather watched her, bright-eyed. “Thanks. I like your sweater.”

Astrid couldn’t help it: she chortled. Heather strained to seem polite, but at least she was trying. “I thought I would try for a like, super academic look, but I don’t really think it’s my thing.”

“No, it’s cute,” said Heather, through a receding giggle. The compliment seemed honest enough—Astrid appreciated the effort, anyway.

“Well. Thanks.”

The train blew into the station. Dr. Larama lived uptown, on the Upper West Side, which Hiccup had abbreviated in his text as the UWS. Astrid was learning the acronyms thing slowly: UWS, LES, BK, etc. She called it “New York speak” and she did not like it.

“Funny how he’s trying to set us up,” Heather remarked, as they hung from the handrails in the subway car. Funny was a nice way to think of it, Astrid supposed.

“Totally transparent,” she agreed.

“Sort of sickeningly sweet, isn’t it?”

Astrid glanced at Heather. She was grinning at her reflection in the dark window, pleased but sheepish. “The skinny ones are like that,” Astrid managed.

“You realize he’s introducing me to his mom tonight? And we haven’t even…” Heather caught herself, and eyed Astrid sideways, but she had got the meaning and furiously averted her gaze. “Sorry, TMI. You don’t need to hear about it. It’s just weird, I never really saw myself with a boyfriend here.”

“Yeah,” Astrid replied weakly. She was still—Hiccup and Heather had been dating for a month and a half, now, and they—well, it seemed like maybe they hadn’t— “Hiccup’s so great, though.” Whatever feeling had rushed her, it knocked her voice up a register.

“He is.” Heather stared at her reflection again, smile waning.

Astrid hesitated. They hadn’t had sex. She supposed, remembering Hiccup’s blushing that day in Target, it made sense he would want to wait—but over a month? When the two of them had been spending as much time together as Astrid knew they had? No wonder Heather looked a little glum. Astrid hated the twinge of victory that underline her pity.

She grit her teeth, and shifted her weight, shifted the conversation. “So, what’re you doing for winter break?”

The apartment constituted the third floor of an older walk-up, and the interior struck Astrid as unbearably cramped, but she didn’t know if that was just LA standards catching up with her. But it was an attractive space, clean and decorated with the artifacts of the professor’s world travels—African masks and Chinese vases and a Persian rug she’d brought back from research in the Middle East. Near the foyer was an upright piano, sheets of Brahms on the stand. Astrid’s own mother did not extend her art appreciation beyond harshly judging album covers, so she found herself feeling a little envious of Hiccup. He had a semi-famous, probably rich dad, got to go abroad for holidays, and his mother was not only cool but, Astrid had learned through their meetings, whip-smart. She’d almost joked to him that she wished she were a member of his family, but stopped herself, since it seemed… whatever.

When Astrid and Heather came in, she could see Hiccup across the room with Val, and he waved them over. She thought she saw her advisor mouth, _oh, she’s beautiful_.

The place brimmed with graduate students and upper level biology students—Astrid suspected that the three of them were the only freshmen there. It was noisy, conversations layered over conversations, people speaking louder to be heard above the disquiet of people speaking louder to be heard. As they made their way to Hiccup and his mother, Astrid saw platters of cheese and crackers and cold cuts laid out in the kitchen, and at least six or seven bottles of wine, several empty. Definitely a different kind of party than the ones she’d grown accustomed to this semester.

And she sort of—liked it better? Sure, she had to stand off to the side while Heather and Dr. Larama and Hiccup did their awkward introductions, and sure, when she shared her intention to go to medical school with a grad student, he went off on her for ten minutes about the surplus of hard science majors in the prehealth track. But then her eyes fell to the piano, and she struggled through the crowd to find Hiccup or Val.

He hovered over the snacks in the kitchen, eyeing bits of salami suspiciously. He had on the same jacket he wore to the showcase, all those weeks ago. Somehow Astrid doubted he owned anything nicer.

“Hey,” she said breathlessly, relieved to be free of the intellectual fervor in the next room. The kitchen was small, but empty. He looked up, grinned.

“Hey. How’re you?”

“Good. Is that piano in tune?” They both glanced over her shoulder, where the instrument stood untouched in the living room.

“Uh. I think she had it tuned this summer when we moved.” Frowning, he carefully laid the salami across a cracker, and popped it into his mouth. She stifled a laugh at the weird precision.

“Do you think she’d mind if I played?”

Brushing crumbs from his fingers, his head careened to the side. “You play the piano?”

“Yeah. Twelve years.”

“When do you find time to sleep?” he demanded, but he was smiling at her. The lights were low and they yellowed the glint in his eye.

She shrugged. “Sleep’s overrated. I just feel like a holiday party should have some holiday music, you know?”

“Yeah, absolutely!”

He beamed at her and Astrid squirmed under the intensity of it. There were adjectives she could have used to pin down that look, but all those words became unwieldy with connotation. She half-turned back to the living room, preparing to go. “Maybe we can convince Heather to sing something.”

“Yeah,” he said again, weaker, eagerness checked by her implicit reminder of his girlfriend’s presence, in just the next room. _Idiot_ , she thought, smiling to herself. She went to the piano and started to play. Hiccup leaned on the doorjamb to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, watching Heather put words to a song as Astrid plunked out the tune.

* * *

 

The next week, Wednesday night, Astrid got a phone call during a late study session at the library. She gathered her things and ran out to take it. It was her mother.  

Ben’s mom had called, apparently: he was taking a leave of absence from USC to enter a rehab facility in Montana. Her mother remarked on what an uppity place it was, very expensive, celebrity clientele—she had never liked Ben’s wealthy family, though she disguised it well enough to befriend his mimosa-sipping mother.

After their largely one-sided conversation wound down, Astrid sat on a bench in frozen, dead Washington Square Park. She ought to feel something, she knew, but it was so cold and dark and she shouldn’t have been outside alone, even though the library glowed a mere hundred feet away. He was going to rehab. In Montana. She would not see him—would she ever see him again? The last image she had in her mind of Ben, he stood on the threshold of her apartment, eyes red, screaming bloody murder. Swearing she’d done this to him. Astrid sucked in a deep breath; her throat ached, she was fighting tears.

Head down, wound snugly into her huge coat, she went home. When she stepped off the elevator on the eighth floor her feet carried her not right, to the familiar quarters of 8G, but left, to the sanctuary of 8B, where the last time she’d felt like this—albeit in more dire straights, then—she’d had hands to hold her and a sweet, affected voice to reassure her, and comfortable silence. She knocked, and when the door swung open, was greeted with commotion that made her quickly wipe her face and snivel for composure’s sake.

“We need to _go_ ,” Tuff was saying loudly, “Fish, your legs are too short, you need to work on that—”

“I can’t work on _that_!”

The two boys were in their coats, scrambling to collect their bags from the heap of shoes, jackets, and other personal effects by the door. She’d suggested a coatrack, but no one had gotten around to it, apparently. One of them must’ve let her in, but even Fish didn’t greet her.

“What’s going on?” she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

“Tuff left my iPad somewhere—”

“Okay, let’s not go throwing around accusations like, ‘Tuff did this,’ ‘Tuff did that,’—”

“YOU LITERALLY TOLD ME YOU DID IT?” Fish swung around to face Astrid, reeling it in, but just barely. “He doesn’t remember, so we have to go retrace his steps.”

Suddenly Ruff burst into the kitchen from the hall, also in her overcoat, glaring. “Eret won’t _leave_!”  
“Eret’s here?” said Astrid weakly.

“He’s with Snot. Asswipe.” Ruff grabbed her brother’s arm. “Let’s go find this iPad, dipshit. Mom’s gonna kill us.”

The three of them started to surge past her into the hall, but Astrid called, “Wait, where’s Hiccup?” They were all going to leave, okay, and Eret was here, okay, but she’d come for Hiccup and as long as she could find him, she’d be saved from this.

Ruff stopped short, Tuff barreling into her back, and Fish into his. They forced Astrid to take a few steps back, so she stood squarely in the boys’ kitchen. Three pairs of wide, frightened eyes watched her. Ruff said, slow, careful, “Hiccup is…” It didn’t seem like she could finish her sentence. Ruff eyed her brother, and Fish looked fishily between the twins and Astrid.

It was Tuff who stepped forward, finally, and told her in a gentle tone, “Hiccup is at your apartment, Astrid.”

“Oh,” she said at first, not understanding. “Oh, okay, why’s he…” It dawned on her. Why they were acting so weird, walking on eggshells. It was late, almost eleven, Hiccup was at her apartment. Her and Ruff and Heather’s apartment. Her stomach dropped. “Wait.” Ruff cringed, anticipating an explosion, and Fish ducked behind Tuff. “Are you… I mean you’re sure they’re—”

“That’s why I left,” Ruff said quickly. Maybe saving Astrid from having to utter the words.

Fishlegs chimed in, “Hiccup said—” But Tuff elbowed him in the gut before he could finish.

Ears ringing, Astrid turned away from them and started to put her things down on the kitchen table—bookbag, hat, jacket. Ruff pulled Tuff and Fish along, into the hall, calling, “We’ll be back soon, Astrid!” In her periphery, Astrid registered Tuff resisting a little, but his sister shook her head and tugged him away. Implicitly, Astrid was invited to stay, even when they’d closed the door and she stood alone in the kitchen. The ringing in her ears might have deafened her, but she knew it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it couldn’t hurt her.

She left her stuff in the kitchen and drifted into the hall. The sight of Hiccup’s door brought a shooting pain in her gut, a needle through that center of instinct and feeling.

Ben was in rehab because of her. Hiccup was fucking Heather.

 _It’s fine_ , she lied to herself, and moved into the living room.

Snot slept on the couch, snoring hard. Eret sat by the open window—the air was cold. He smoked a cigarette, more haggard than she had ever seen him. Suddenly she realized, he reminded her of Ben—they looked nothing alike, but they had the same glossy confidence, infuriating humor, fuckable smirks.

Eret did one when he saw her. Astrid struggled to temper her sobs into deep breaths. His smile wavered.

“Astrid. Hello.”

“What’d you do to Snot.”

“Wasn’t me. Was vodka.” Eret stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. “What’s wrong with you?” Strange how she needed no pretenses around Eret; he knew she disliked him, there was no mystery—so perhaps not so strange after all. Perhaps the very sensible ease of two people loathed by the world around them.

Ignoring his question, she gestured to the cigarettes. “Can I get one?”

He raised an eyebrow, but offered it to her, and she came to sit with him by the window while she smoked, exhaling out into the frigid night. Eret lit another to smoke with her. She was a social smoker, smart enough to know that one cigarette at a party every so often wouldn’t kill her. And the ritual stroked her mussed emotions smooth, or she hoped it would.

After a long silence, he said, “Can’t believe a girl like you would let a little freak like that get to her.”

Astrid took a long drag and blew it in his face. Eret coughed and fanned the air in front of him, sending it out the window. “Why’d you ask what’s wrong with me if you knew?”

“Politeness. I could hear you lot in the kitchen.” He let the cigarette hang from his lips.

Astrid met his eye and something in her hardened over. Injury to anger. Her tears dried up. _A little freak like that_. And she’d wanted it all to work out so badly, she wanted to like Heather and she wanted to love Hiccup, but she was not that good. Not tonight, anyway. When she spoke, she heard her voice like the playback of a tape recorder, recognizable but removed. “Do you want to fuck me?”

Eret stirred. He put out his cigarette, scowling, and she did the same. He was searching her face for a joke or a trick, but she had no humor right now. In that moment, she couldn’t imagine a future in which she laughed as much as she once had. “What do you think?” he said, finally, gruff.

They stared at one another. Astrid slid a hand up his thigh; he kissed her, fingers interrupting the braid at the base of her head. And they kept going.

A minute later he had her pushed up against the back of Snot’s door, tongue down her throat, hands gripping her thighs, huge hands. Boded well for his cock, she supposed, but it was difficult to feel excited—it was difficult to feel turned on. Instead she had the comforting rote memory of this, of sex, because she’d missed sex and it didn’t _matter_ anymore, she would fuck Eret who she hated, who had dated her best friend, because sex wasn’t special. It was just sex. It was the sensation of his huge, hard body moving against her smaller, softer one, it was all mouths and fingernails on skin and the multiplicity of limbs. Physical. He was so very not-skinny, this Eret, and he had no freckles. “Just sex,” she mumbled to herself. He didn’t hear her.

Eret hoisted her again and deposited her on Snot’s bed—disgusting that they were going to do this _here_ , but everywhere else in the apartment was somehow more repulsive, and she had a feeling debate would do them no good. Panting, Eret started to fumble through his pockets. “I’ve got one—it’s somewhere.” Astrid lay there, glaring as he went through his wallet three or four times. “I’ve got one,” he said again—then he flew to Snot’s beside drawer. “Bloody fucking hell.” He drew out about ten condoms. “These are _all_ expired.”

“I knew Snot was full of it,” she tried to joke. But she only sounded mean.

He raised a land, telling her to stay. “I’m going to—there’s got to be some in the bath, at least one of these prats is getting laid.” Eret disappeared.

Alone, she looked down at herself: the fly down on her jeans, three buttons undone on her shirt, red tracks on her skin where he had clawed at her and she at him. Her back ached slightly from being pressed against the door. Her shoes were still on. _You fuck up_ , she told herself, and it wasn’t a lie this time.

When Eret returned, waving a rubber in red plastic, she did up the fly on her jeans.

“Go home.”

“But—”

“Go _home_ , Eret.” She left him in Snot’s room, oafish and out of place, spluttering. Maybe she’d get lucky and he would die of blueballs.

In the hall, Astrid caught her breath. She rebuttoned her shirt and smoothed the fabric, fixed her braid. Her face felt hot, her heart thundered in her chest. She glanced down toward the kitchen and living area. But for Snot’s snoring, it was still so quiet, the twins and Fish were not back yet, and she had no desire to wait for them. To her left, Hiccup’s door no longer gave her a pain to look at. She went to it and ran two fingers down the wood grain, then slipped her hand around the knob, and pushed. Unlocked. She tiptoed inside, just as she could hear Eret leaving Snot’s room.

Flicking on the light, Toothless’s gleaming eyes met her from where he lay across the foot of Hiccup’s bed. The room had the usual glorious messiness about it: paper everywhere, the bed wasn’t made, his sheets were dark blue and wound around the comforter. On the bedside table sat a box of tissues, and she had the filthy thought that he wouldn’t need those so much anymore. Somehow the grit of this dirty joke juxtaposed with the extreme reminder of Hiccup’s current occupation hit her in an odd place, emotionally, and she felt herself starting to cry again. She kicked off her sneakers, and climbed into the bed, curling against the cat, who responded to her warmth with instant purrs. “You’re on your own tonight too, huh?” Toothless mewed. She stroked his head with a single finger, wet-faced. It was such a cozy, comfortable, good-smelling bed; the tears came readily now that she felt for the first time safe and near to her good friend. She wiped them on his pillow, and his ridiculous jerk-off tissues, bizarre enough to make her giggle through the sobs, if only for a moment.

Which came first, the sleep or the end of her crying, she didn’t know. She only knew that she woke up to sun streaming through the window, and a small paw swatting at her nose.

“Toothless, please.”

“Astrid?”

She jerked halfway to sitting, struggling to focus through the sleep in her eyes.

Hiccup stood, a hand still on the doorknob from where he’d come in, a few seconds before. She had really done it—she had spent the night in his bed, except she was the only human person in it. _Great. A real victory_.

“Hi,” he said slowly, around a laugh.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” she said at once, scrambling out of the bed, displacing Toothless in the process. The cat leapt to Hiccup’s desk chair, and sat watching the two of them.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, I just—” She looked around the floor for her shoes. “I came looking for you, and started playing with Toothless, and I was tired, so…”

Hiccup shifted awkwardly, blush starting up on his pale face. “Ah. Yeah. Well, I was—uh.”

“At my apartment. I know.” The way she said that, _I know_ —if he wasn’t an idiot, he would understand that she knew not just where he’d been last night, but what he’d been doing, too. When she straightened up, shoe in hand, he was staring out the window, mouth a hard line. He glanced back at her and Astrid nearly looked away, but the expression on his face riveted her. “I almost hooked up with Eret. Can you believe that?” She said it to hurt him, and she thought, from the taught flinch of his jaw, maybe she had.

“No,” he said simply, “How crazy.”

Astrid had finished tying her shoes, and she stood. “Yeah.” She started for the door, Hiccup skulking out of the way. “Hey,” she turned back to him, “If I don’t see you before break starts, have fun in Scotland.”

“Thanks, Astrid.”

“Safe travels.”

He forced a smile. “You too.”


	13. I Can't Believe You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fucking TERRIBLE joke in this chapter and my friend Kendal wants you all to know I stole it from her.
> 
> This chapter wasn't originally in my outline, but after the last one I felt some exposition might be in order. So, enjoy the angst.

Huddled in his bed some minutes later, Hiccup watched the air by the seam of the door where Astrid had disappeared. Toothless made a small heat against his leg, snoozing. It was achingly quiet in the room, achingly loud in the street eight floors below. He heard car horns and a man shouting in a language that might have been Russian. The usual late morning Manhattan din.

 _I almost hooked up with Eret. Can you believe that? "_ I almost hooked up with Eret. Can you believe that?" he whined, a cattier-than-fair imitation of Astrid's high voice. Toothless quirked a reprimanding ear in his direction; guilt nagged at him. Even if she was being cruel and deserved the backlash.

She'd seemed hurt. He didn't know what to do with this understanding. And he didn't know what to do with the fact that, in spite of some sympathy, he remained angry with her. For—for a lot of things. She had rejected him—because she just _couldn't_ right now, or something. Though, as the wound of that rejection closed up, a nasty suspicion had festered in him that what he'd told her in the bathroom stall that night—he suspected his leg had something to do with it. No, he didn't want to think of Astrid as a bigot, but he'd met so many bigots before, it wasn't far-fetched. And it would be his luck, too, to feel that way about someone who found him repulsive. Perhaps she pushed him toward Heather to apologize, he had certainly thought so at the time.

But it didn't give her the right to be mad at him. It didn't give her the right to act as though _he_ 'd done something wrong, when all he wanted was… someone. A connection.

Not that he'd found one.

He took a deep breath. He needed a shower. Astrid couldn't have known what it would do, to joke about not going through with it. He wished—he wished he'd had the luxury. Was it funny, that she'd nearly had sex in bad conscience? Where was the humor? Last night lying next to Heather, her nails tracing circles on his chest until she passed out, he stayed awake with the gutting force of regret. He hadn't been ready six weeks ago, and he hadn't been ready a month ago, and he hadn't been ready last night. But he couldn't say no again. She didn't want to talk, she didn't want to laugh, she only wanted _that_. He felt like he owed her: for being so patient, for dating him in the first place.

It was bad. He'd known it was bad while it was happening. _He_ was bad—because it was a false effort on his part, because he had no idea what he was doing, because he came too quickly and she had to show him how to get her off with his hands. Afterwards, all she'd said was, "We can try again later," which was meant to be reassuring, he knew, but it made him want to kick something. Then, uncomfortable silence. He was right next to her, and perhaps it was the gush of post-coital hormones, but he felt hate flow between them. He hated her for making him do it, and he hated himself for believing she had made him do it, when he had a clear choice and made the wrong decision. And only more hate when he realized that yes, he _would_ try again later. He hated that, singularly among moments, the orgasm had been good.

He hated that he couldn't take it back. He hated he only had one first time to give. Hiccup groaned, twisted a hand into his hair like he'd noticed he did when he was frustrated. Some habits weren't worth fixing.

Why stay with someone you hate? _You don't hate her. Not really_. He grabbed his towel and went to see if he could scrub away some of this feeling.

* * *

"Is college crazy?" her brother kept asking, eyes glossed, so you could almost see the insanity he'd drummed up anticipating the answer to this question.

"Hold it steady, Alec," Astrid grunted, heaving another right hook at the punching bag. The grey leather puckered at the force, worn by ten years of her and her father taking out their frustrations on it.

"I'm holding it!"

Swing, swing—she kicked the bag and he stumbled back; catching her breath, Astrid bobbed away. Even with Alec's recent growth spurt, she was stronger than him, she'd almost forgotten. Sweat suctioned her shirt to her chest, her hands were hot in the bulbous boxing gloves.

"So," said Alec, leaning on the bag to stop its swinging, " _is_ it?"

"What?"

"Is college crazy?"

She sighed. _Crazy_. What an insipid word to sum up her first semester. "It's not crazy, it's just hard."

Wooden slams from the corner—they both turned to see Sydney, the youngest Hofferson sibling at twelve years, glowering at them from the top of the basement stairs. "Dad says dinner is going to be ready in twenty minutes and Mom says everyone needs to be presentable because it's a holiday." Both Astrid's siblings turned their gazes to her, Alec laughing, Sydney smirking.

Astrid raised her gloved hands in defeat. "All right, I get it, I'm gonna shower, you little dicks."

"MOM," Syd went roaring away, "Astrid said _dicks_!"

Like every shared meal at the Hofferson house, Christmas Eve dinner consisted of reportage. In a swirl of jargon, she heard about the latest cases of her parents, her father the District Attorney, and her mother who made a career at Legal Aid; they had met at Yale, bonded over the snobbery of all their classmates, and sworn that together they'd put their degrees to good use. Alec, a track star attending prep school on scholarship just as Astrid had, made their championship-winning debate team, the only freshman. Sydney, an artist, was preparing her portfolio for application to LA County's prestigious arts high school. At home, Astrid's resume always seemed less impressive. She didn't know how to tell people that the Hoffersons were _all_ like this, they didn't know how else to be. Smart, hardworking to a fault. Never making anything easy for themselves.

When she'd finished eating, Astrid chewed her nails, listening to a conversation about her brother's new coach; the old, chipped polish made purple half-moons distant from her cuticles. She glanced up and her mother was watching her, with what was either suspicion or concern. Had she told Dad about Ben? He might've guessed—Astrid had acted oddly after going out one afternoon over Thanksgiving, and, claiming homesickness and stress, she cried a bit when they picked her up at LAX.

Well, whatever. As long as neither parent tried to talk to her about it. And if they did—she knew what she'd say. There was no conversation to be had, thus far words had only fucked her over. The moment she stepped across the threshold of the bedroom she and Sydney had shared for so many years, she understood that this was precisely what she'd needed: a few weeks cocooned in the familiar, to fit herself back together. She needed to fight with Syd about leaving shit on her bed and she needed to kick Alec's ass in touch football. She needed her dad's cooking and her mom's nitpicking. And she was sleeping soundly now, for the first time in months.

* * *

It was a cold Christmas in Edinburgh; out by the Firth, the waves froze on the beaches. He'd had a Scottish week thus far if there ever was one—forced to attend a _ceilidh_ with a hoard of young Haddock cousins, choking down haggis at his gran's in Inverness. Like every year, his entire family took delight in mocking his accent with words he didn't understand. He'd had to look up what it meant to be _hackit_ , the results weren't flattering.

After visiting the Highlands, they drove back to the city on Christmas day. The sheep on the highway had icicles in their thick wool. Stoick driving and his uncle Gobber sitting shotgun, Hiccup bunched up in the back, fighting for space with the spokes of Gobber's folded wheelchair. The car was comically small—all European cars were, to his American gaze—and his big uncle and bigger father looked hilarious, their large arms pressed against the windows, with nowhere else to go. Hiccup wore three layers of wool and still felt cold. It wasn't that much worse than home, weather-wise, but it was damp. He felt weak, too, like the cold could pierce him.

At least Stoick's flat, an elegant three-bedroom prominently located in Edinburgh's New Town, was warm finally. It comforted Hiccup. From the parlor window, he could just see Princes Street Gardens, the heart of the city, lit up with white lights gleaming diminutively. It reminded him of Rockefeller Center at this time of year. He liked that, but it was a false sense of security, he discovered, when his father declared his intention to make an announcement.

Hiccup came away from the window, abandoning the holiday traffic, the quiet closed storefronts giving way to the gurgling cheer of passersby, going to Christmas dinners across the city. Stoick took the glass from Hiccup's hand, refilled it. The good Christmas scotch. He handed it back to his son.

"I'm coming back to America."

"Coming back to America?" Hiccup repeated, lowering himself to the antique sofa—all his dad's furniture was heirloom—and he pushed the paper crown out of his eyes. Stoick settled opposite him in an armchair. He wore a brown tweed suit, and a ridiculous holiday jumper, his long red hair wound back into a ponytail, beard unreal.

"Aye."

"Didn't you…" The drinks had numbed Hiccup's face, but he knew he pulled an unpleasant expression. "I'm sorry, didn't you just _leave_ America?"

He could hear the effort his father put into optimism. "Well, we've been—running the numbers, and it seems we would be better served concentrating on the American market… And you remember, son, this was a trial relocation—"

"You're coming back to _New York_?"

Hiccup had made his displeasure too clear; Stoick sat back, frowning. From the kitchen came a crash, and Uncle Gobber's voice screaming an apology. Of the three of them, only Gobber could cook, even passably, and he had learned to command the smallish workspace even in his chair.

" _Hou's it gaun?"_ Stoick shouted, slipping thoughtlessly into Scots as he rose.

" _Dinnae fash yersel!"_ Gobber roared back. Stoick settled back into his seat, eyeing the door to the kitchen warily.

"Mom's going to freak out," Hiccup told him, but he'd only needed to say the word _mom_ for Stoick to start shaking his head.

"This isn't about your mother." Back to the Queen's English. Hiccup knew this meant he was feeling self-aware.

"Have you told her?" His dad shifted uncomfortably. "She already thinks you hogged me for ten years! She _wants_ to be the only parent living in the same city as me."

After a pause, Stoick only repeated himself, "This isn't about your mother."

Hiccup rubbed his eyes, then sat forward, tapping his foot. Somehow he felt that this was, in fact, about his mother, and he'd reached the point in his life as a child of divorce where he no longer felt obligated to disguise his annoyance with his parents. "Okay, fine, when are you coming?"

"I've booked a ticket on the same flight you'll be taking home."

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

In the next room Gobber scolded, "LANGUAGE!"

Hiccup hopped to his feet, grabbed his glass. "Call me when dinner's ready."

"Son. Hiccup," Stoick tried to halt him, but he stomped off, into the guest room where they'd set him up for the visit. They had a maid, or maybe it was Gobber—someone had been coming in and making the bed during the day. Hiccup threw himself down on to it now, mussing the neat work. Somehow even more annoyed than he'd been a minute ago, he got out his phone, thinking to waste time, distract himself. He needed to text Heather, he'd promised to video chat, but he didn't feel content enough to talk to her right now—then stupidity overwhelmed him, he pressed the corner of the phone into his forehead.

He didn't really have a reason to be upset by his father's return. Hiccup liked his dad, mostly. He did _not_ like feeling pushed around by the extravagant life decisions of his parents, but maybe he ought to be used to it by now.

Against him, the phone buzzed. It was a text from Astrid: his heart flew to his throat. She'd sent him a picture of herself, wearing a festive elf hat and making a funny face, with what he recognized as one of his comics. The text read, _Spending my break with Spiderman._

He texted back immediately. An instinct bred by three years of comic book obsession.

_Spider-Man. It's not JAKE SPIDERMAN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW  
_ _For this joke you have to imagine Spiderman pronounced like Goldman_

The instant he'd hit send on the second message, he remembered their awkwardness, his anger, what a text from her might signify. And he'd just told… probably the dorkiest Spider-Man joke in the universe.

The ellipsis popped up, Astrid was typing, and then it went away again. Three texts in quick secession:

_That's the worst joke I've ever heard_  
 _I'm going to kill you for that joke  
_ _I can't believe you_

He laughed, in spite of himself. Usually when he delivered the line, he got groans or eye rolls. A death threat was kind of refreshing.

_Don't try to change me_

_Never  
_ _Are you having fun in Scotland?_

A conversation. Hiccup stared at the chat window. She was reaching out to him, trying to make peace. He had been _so angry_ with her, and now… funny how he really couldn't stay mad at her. Maybe not funny, maybe pathetic, but some torches had to be carried. Were they friends? Did he _want_ them to be friends? The answer came to him emphatically.

_Yes_

_Did you wear a kilt?_

_You think this is a joke? This is my ANCESTRY_

_Haha. Can we skype?_

He glanced over his shoulder, at the door. If he went back out there now, he could probably be done with dinner soon, providing he played nice for his dad.

_Give me an hour_

* * *

On the other side of the world, at the Hofferson residence in downtown Los Angeles, Christmas dinner was fast approaching—another fifteen minutes and her mother would be in her room, harassing her to come downstairs and be _social_ , this holiday is about _family_ , etc. Already Sydney had popped in to grab her sketchbook and said, "Tell that boy you're talking to he has a weird voice," which Hiccup heard perfectly on his end.

They caught up. Shared wintery stories. Astrid felt relieved—she told him how hard it had been at the end of the semester, and that she was doing much better now. She hoped he heard an apology in it. Given that he kept talking to her, he probably had.

After they'd been chatting for nearly two hours, there was a pause on Hiccup's end. Seriousness came over his pixelated expression. "Do you remember when you told me that like, you should be my relationship counselor?"

She shifted on her bed, drawing her computer into her lap. "Yeah," she replied, slow, a little fearful. She'd said a lot of stuff at the start of his thing with Heather—mainly to convince herself that she was indeed as Fine With It as she wanted to be. Which, now…

"I… need to, I don't know…"

"What happened?"

"So." He looked down, tried to lift his voice, like a lighter tone could ease the weight of the situation. "Heather and I slept together for the first time right before break."

Astrid held her expression steady, an enormous effort. "Right." She could see, even through the difficult distortion of the image, he was struggling for words. She prompted gently, "Did it go okay?" _You're a friend_ , she told herself. _Be a good friend._

"I don't… no."

 _You're cool, you're a good friend_. "Did you talk to her about it?"

"What, like, 'Sorry I was terrible in bed'?"

"Everyone's bad their first time."

A pause. He'd heard this before, probably. He asked, "Were you?"

She took a deep breath. "You know. I was fifteen. And he was my first real boyfriend, and he was older. And I told myself I was bad for a long time, like that he just must've thought I was the worst. But… I don't think we give ourselves enough credit. For how scary it is."

"Yeah," he said, sounding hoarse.

"He liked me a lot. I think he was happy he got to share that with me."

"Yeah," Hiccup said again. His voice had shrunk.

"Just—this is going to sound dumb—just tell her how you felt about it."

"Huh, right." His eyes flew up to the ceiling in whatever room he was in—a Scottish room. It was getting late there, toward two o'clock in the morning. "So. Let's suppose, in theory, I hadn't exactly… spoken to Heather since I got here—"

"Hiccup!" She'd started to laugh.

"In that _hypothetical_ situation—"

"You need to call her, stupid, what are you doing talking to me?" It slipped out before she could think twice. The smile on his face faltered.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Well…" They had their own shit. But she didn't know if it was more important than his virginity angst—a part of her hoped. A very selfish but very vocal little part. "I'm sorry I was rude to you, before."

He shook his head. "No, Astrid, it's fine—"

"No, I am, I'm sorry." An affect ballooned within her, driving out the words, she felt them expanding beyond her control. "I want you to be happy, and I'm glad you are, because you really deserve it, I believe that I didn't mean to be a dick—you're so great, you've been so kind to me, and you're smart and you're funny—you're—" A phrase beat on the end of this sentence, wanting to be free, but she couldn't find the latch to let it loose. Whatever he was, the meaning filled her, and the inability to express it so frustrated her, her throat tightened up, maybe she was going to cry, maybe Hiccup could see that.

He stared at her through the computer, open-mouthed, until his gaze fell to the keyboard. "Thanks, Astrid. I'm happy we're friends."

"Me too. Like, incredibly happy. Couldn't be happier." She chuckled, half to herself, as a knock came at the bedroom door, calling her to Christmas dinner. " _Well_. Maybe a little."


	14. Friday the Thirteenth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I told you a couple of chapters ago that we’d hit the low point? Well. I sort of lied. The next two installments might be lower. But… in a good way. Yeah.

On Friday the Thirteenth, in February of that New Year, Hiccup had a very bad day.

Everyone arrived back to campus for the last week of January, and it was all new classes and jumping reunions and complaining about the weather. In February, New York seemed bleaker—the magic of the holidays receded as people took down their Christmas lights and the street corner Santas vanished, leaving no trace of their charity buckets. Leftover was the dirty snow and the cold and the concrete and the cheerless bare trees. In Washington Square Park, the grass had greyed and the fountain dried up.

He went uptown to his mother’s apartment, unannounced. Granted, you’d imagine a person shouldn’t have to worry about showing up at their own home unannounced, but on Friday the Thirteenth, in February of that New Year, this was not the case. He intended to tell her to stop sending him emails with information about summer courses—transparently, she wanted him at NYU over the break, rather than working for Sofa King, even though he would’ve been in the city no matter what and wasn’t interested in either. He’d told her as much in a text, but she ignored it; he would have to do this in person. His father being back in town had clearly intensified her failure to listen. She was leaving for a conference that evening, so this was his last chance to vent for a few days, even if talking to Val was akin to screaming in space. Also like being in space, it made him feel like exploding.

The first place he went after leaving his mom’s place was to 8G. He knew someone would be there he could talk to. Astrid or Heather, it didn’t matter then. He needed an ear.

* * *

Astrid got back from the pool late that Friday afternoon, and heard voices in the common room: Hiccup and Heather, speaking loud, maybe arguing. Her first instinct was to hang back in the kitchen and pray they wouldn’t notice her—she feared seeming opportunistic, walking in on a fight. But she could hear every word.

“Stop _yelling_ at me,” Heather said, sounding more fragile than Astrid had ever heard her.

“I’m not yelling at you!” He was undoubtedly yelling at her. “I just don’t know why you’d _say_ that—”

“Because it’s true, you’re overreacting, this should be a good thing—”

“You don’t fucking know what you’re talking about!”

Done eavesdropping, she stepped into the threshold between the kitchen and living room. Hiccup and Heather stood on opposite ends of the coffee table; he still wore his coat, and paced the floor, agitated; Heather looked shrunken and only grew smaller at the sight of Astrid. Hiccup didn’t even pause when he saw her.

“What’s going on?”

Heather shook her head, and turned away from them, but Hiccup was quick to answer her. “You wanna know something crazy?” He was so angry he’d slipped into hysteria, grinning furiously. “I went to my mom’s apartment today—and guess who was there? My dad!” He threw his arms open, theatrical. “My parents are sleeping together!” Oh, oh no. Astrid got it right away, and bit her lip.

Like a wounded creature, righteously indignant, Heather piped up. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

He turned on her. “What’s wrong with _me_? Are you fucking kidding?”

Astrid took a step toward him, the way you might approach a spooked horse. “Hiccup…”

But Heather was relentless, not understanding. “Your parents are _together_ —”

“Ten fucking years,” he stomped across the floor, eyes lit with anger festered over a decade, “They put me through—screaming arguments and the dumbest shit ever, calling each other sociopaths to my _face_ —I was twelve! What kind of person tells their twelve year old kid his mom’s a sociopath!” Astrid sighed, eyed Heather, who was looking increasingly tearful as Hiccup shouted at her across the room, as though this were her fault.

“What happened when you found out?” Astrid asked, trying to draw his attention away from her roommate. Thank God Ruff wasn’t home—she had rarely felt so much tension in this apartment.

Hiccup drew back from Heather. He softened a smidge when he looked at Astrid. Reeling it in to tell his story. “I… I don’t know, I came in and I saw them kissing.”

“Did either of them say anything?”

“Just the usual ‘please don’t be mad’ bullshit.”

“I’m sorry,” she managed.

“I can’t fucking deal with this,” Hiccup muttered, swiveling away from the both of them. Astrid glanced at Heather, who looked back at her sourly. There was a buzz, a ring, and Hiccup pulled out his phone, glowering at the screen.

“It’s Gobber.”

“Who—”

“My uncle. They probably want him to play peacekeeper.” Hiccup bit his lip. “He’s calling from Scotland, I gotta take this.”

Hand on his shoulder, Astrid guided Hiccup toward the hall. “Go into my room. We’ll be right here when you’re done.” He didn’t thank her, but vanished in stewing silence down the corridor. The moment he was gone, Heather collapsed against the wall, her face clouded with fury.

“What a psycho asshole!”

Astrid felt a sudden swell of anger at Heather—she should have been on Hiccup’s side, trying to empathize, even a little. “What the fuck are you doing?” Heather glanced at her, maybe caught off-guard by Astrid’s random insertion of herself into this shitstorm, but she couldn’t help it. Complaining that he ought to be _happy_ about what had happened… Maybe it was just some optimism that had gotten away from her, but she had failed to support him when he was already upset. Had she expected not to earn some of Hiccup’s ire for herself?   

Finally, Heather stood up straight and spoke, her tone curbed but still mad as hell, or even madder, now that Astrid had come for her—Astrid who had been so unfriendly, Astrid who had plainly coveted Hiccup. The intensity of the glare Heather gave her roommate would’ve made a weaker woman cower. But Astrid was not weak.

“What the fuck am _I_ doing?” Heather echoed. “I suggested for one second that it might not be so horrible that his parents don’t _hate_ each other anymore, and he calls me—he called me a bitch, did you overhear that bit? And you’re asking what the fuck _I’m_ doing?”

Stupid, Astrid stumbled back slightly. She felt astonished by her earlier impulse to defend Hiccup. Now, with it spelled out before her in such plain language, she could see that he was indeed being a bit of a psycho asshole. Just a bit. “I’m sorry,” Astrid attempted, but Heather had zoned out, she was glaring at the plain white walls.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she announced.

 _Fuck_. Astrid’s eyes flew to the hall—down there, Hiccup was negotiating one major grievance in his life, and here in the living room Astrid was about to negotiate another. “Heather, don’t, not right now, he’s already freaking out—”

“I’m his girlfriend, not his therapist!”

“He needs you now, I’m sure he’ll apologize tomorrow.”

“You wanna know something?” Heather smiled—the kind of sadistic smile you get from someone who doesn’t worry who they might hurt because they’ve been so hurt themselves. “I don’t care. If he apologizes he won’t mean it. He hates me.”

“He doesn’t—”

“No, shut up, he does. You should see—he fucking _hates_ me, I can tell.” Sighing, Heather stuck a hand through her thick dark hair. It felt wrong somehow, to be watching her go through this, to be hearing these words, when Astrid was so biased by her own desires.

“Maybe he’s just mad at you,” she offered weakly.

Heather ignored the suggestion—a fair thing, Astrid knew it was wishful thinking. “You know, over the break, when he wasn’t speaking to me, I was _relieved_. It was nice! And then we got back here, and he just wants to fuck me, and the better he gets at it the less I enjoy it because it’s so damn angry—which is real fucking ironic, considering I didn’t even want to be his girlfriend in the first place, I just wanted a hook-up!” Her shoulders shook, her chest heaved, this was it. “It’s over,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to herself, “Three months of my life for a fucking hook-up—it’s so over.”

“Great.” This was Hiccup’s voice. The girls turned; he was standing at the entrance to the hall, hands in fists at his sides, a hard but surprisingly unfeeling expression on his face as he stared at Heather. “I do,” he said, without inflection, or difficulty—it gave Astrid chills. “I hate you.”

“Fuck you so much,” Heather spit, and she pushed past him to get into the hall, presumably running to her room. Astrid saw him stir to go after her and seized his arm.

“Hey, let me buy you a cup of coffee.” Drawn from a trance of indignation and pain, he gaped at her for half a second, and then nodded. As she led him out the door, he descended into tiredness with an undercurrent of rage. He looked broken.

She kept her hand on his elbow while they left the building and went to a café down the street. It had begun to snow, the new precipitate coating the piles left over from last week’s blizzard. He slipped a little on the sidewalk, and she caught him; he explained, quiet, embarrassed, “I’m not good with ice.” Astrid only smiled. She ordered them both espressos at the café, though she didn’t drink much coffee.

For the first ten minutes, they sat there in silence. Hiccup stirred the coffee with the tiny spoon and sipped it listlessly. She thought he would speak when he was ready, but grew less certain of this as the minutes ticked by. Perhaps he assumed she didn’t want to hear. So finally she sat forward and ducked her head, forcing him to lift his chin to look at her.

“Are you okay?” He took a deep breath. She added, “Is that a dumb question?”

For a long beat, Hiccup only sat there watching her, and then he idly spun the saucer beneath his cup. The café was fairly empty, a couple of tourists with their sightseeing maps, and then the staff, a barista and a waitress. Hiccup and Astrid sat by the tall window, street growing white as the sky grew dark. The space heater near their table made her feet sweat in her snow boots.

“It’s not a dumb question,” he managed finally. “I’m… I don’t know. I’m an idiot.”

“No.”

“No, I really am an idiot. She was right about everything.”

“That’s not true, you’ve got a right to be mad at your parents. They put you through hell.” A grateful little smile played at his lips and she felt the need to coax it out, so she kept going. “It’s not like they can play into some… perfect movie fantasy of the three of you being a family again, not when they’ve already fucked things up. It can’t just… be like that.”

“Thank you for saying that.” He sounded reasonable—she was happy to see the return of this gentler, leveler Hiccup, even though she could tell from the stoop of his shoulders it was temporary. He had a lot of anger left in him.

“What are friends for?” She tugged at her lip, then made the careful observation, “I think that if you really wanted, you might be able to fix things with Heather.”

He snorted. “Fat chance.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.” They watched as a man went by on the sidewalk outside, spreading salt on the forming ice. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. It’s over. It’s…”

“Going to be fine?”

He frowned at her. “Yeah. I guess so.”

She took an experimental sip of her espresso, hitherto untouched. It tasted awful, bitter. He spied the little face she made and grinned.

“Drink much coffee, Astrid?”

“Fine. I hate coffee.” She nudged the cup away from her.

“Never would’ve guessed, you ordered it like a pro.”

“Weird compliment but I’ll take it.”

They shared a small laugh; it was going to be fine. At last she sensed it was the right time to ask the question that’d been weighing on her since she dragged him from the apartment. “So, what are we going to do tonight to make you feel better?” Hiccup shrugged. “Okay,” she decided, “I have an idea.”

* * *

Ice was beautiful in the world of Berk. It was tall and blue and the sea spit it upwards in giant spikes, capturing the splintered wood of what had once been a massive fort. On this day, the archipelago where they had their finer adventures was altogether preferable to the real winter outside; here, for example, they could pause time while they decided what to do with a difficult situation. Like being face to face with a bunch of burly, opportunistic dragon trappers, who thought it was them that had blown this fort to bits.

Hiccup was rubbing his temples. “So. All right. Drago…”

“Is building a dragon army,” Astrid filled in. “What are we going to do?”

“Uh.”

Astrid groaned. Useless. She clapped her hands together. “Okay, so what if we went back to Berk, and told everyone what we saw, and started trying to rally the troops? And then we’ll have like… a _good_ dragon army to fight him with!”

“We don’t want to use the dragons as weapons, that’s exactly what he’s doing,” Hiccup pointed out, more adamant than he really _deserved_ to be given how helpful his contributions were proving.

“So what’s your bright idea?”

“We… find him, and try to reason with him.”

“You want to reason with the crazy dragon army guy who killed like, thirty chiefs?”

“It’s worth a try!” As seemed rather standard with Hiccup, she couldn’t tell whether he was being naïve or optimistic.

_Can you guys like, hurry up and make a decision?_

Astrid glared. “What, Fish, do you have big plans tonight or something?”

_Yeah, actually, I do! And I spent like three hours writing this adventure and Hiccup clearly doesn’t even want to play—_

“Hey!” chimed Hiccup, offended. But under two skeptical gazes, he flushed. “All right, fine. I’m not on my best game tonight. _Sorry_.”

Astrid put her head in her hands. “Okay. Let’s find him and try to reason with him, like idiots!”

_How are you going to do it?_

Before Hiccup could answer, Astrid gave a clear instruction: “I get Stormfly to grab one of Drago’s trappers, and threaten to drop him if he doesn’t lead us to Drago.”

_A 17. You succeed. Eret agrees to lead you to Drago._

Hiccup stifled a laugh. “You named the trapper after Eret?”

_I knew Astrid would try to torture him for information!_

Forgetting to hide his amusement, Hiccup collapsed into giggles. Astrid glared at both of them for a moment, but the sight of Hiccup looking so happy for a brief moment softened her annoyance. It _was_ kind of funny.

_Okay, we have to stop now. I have a skype thing in twenty minutes._

“We _just_ started,” Astrid complained. “We’re finally about to get somewhere.”

_You told me it was an emergency D &D session, I told you I could only play for a little while…_

“It’s okay,” Hiccup told her across the circle they’d formed on the floor of Fish’s room. “We can finish up tomorrow, Az.” She sighed—a little bothered that he had to be the one comforting her, when it should’ve been the other way around.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s your hot date, Fish?”

Hiccup was joking, but they both noted how red he went, and exchanged two astonished, delighted looks.

“It _is_ a skype date,” Astrid gasped.

“LEAVE ME ALONE,” Fish demanded, and started swinging at them so they’d get up off the floor. “OUT OF MY ROOM. GO AWAY.”

They scattered, chuckling, into the hall. Over his shoulder, Hiccup called, “I want to hear about it later!” Fish shut the door behind them.

“I’m sorry that was such a bust,” she said, as they went into the boys’ living room. “I thought a little bit of escapism would be helpful, or something.”

“It was,” he reassured her, but somehow the look on his face as he gazed out the window—the snow coming down harder than ever—didn’t convince her he was doing any better than he’d been a few hours ago. They paused for a moment, him staring out and her staring at him.

“Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day,” he said quietly.

Astrid sunk two inches into the floor, or it felt like she had. She had conveniently forgotten this fact, and had been hoping he would too. Steeling herself, she poked him in the stomach.

“So, what are we going to do to fix this night?”

Hiccup turned back to her. He had the stricture of emotional crisis all over his expression. It made her heart hurt. “I don’t know.”

“There’s got to be something you want to do.”

“Yeah…” He nodded once, and began to not more, as the idea came over him. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Come on.” He went into the kitchen, for the front door, and Astrid trailed after.

“Where are we going?”

Hiccup swerved to smile at her, with his hand on the doorknob. “My mom is going out of town tonight. My dad was probably over there saying goodbye.”

“Oh.” She was missing something. “So then…”

“We’re going to go to her apartment and drink all of her vodka.”

Astrid gaped at him. Openly. She had never heard Hiccup express such a strong interest in drinking, and she had never heard Hiccup express such a strong interest in revenge, and she had certainly never heard him combine the two. _What a remarkable fucking day_ , she thought, as she followed him into the hall, the elevator, out of the building, to the subway that they took uptown. But maybe remarkable wasn’t the word— _catastrophic_ seemed like a fairer adjective. And, unbeknownst to her as the train rattled north beneath Manhattan’s snow-lined streets, the night would only be worse. 


	15. Rebound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut warning.
> 
> On the first long fic I wrote, there was a chapter with the author’s note, “The Anne giveth and the Anne taketh away,” and that pretty much goes for this one too.
> 
> Things have been very focused on Hiccup and Astrid lately and the story will open back up again after this chapter—I would say this one completes Act 2 of the story, sort of.

“This is like, eighty dollar vodka,” Astrid observed, squinting at the label as she gingerly removed it from the liquor cabinet. The African masks glared down at them from Dr. Larama’s crowded walls. Being in this apartment made Astrid feel posh, intellectual, adult.

“Great! Let’s do shots.”

She swung around to face Hiccup, who sat on the edge of his mom’s sofa, wearing a smile that just barely disguised his scowl. “You want me to do shots with my advisor’s eighty dollar vodka?” she asked flatly.

He pouted at her, childish, chin in his hands. “But Astrid, my girlfriend dumped me, and my mommy and daddy were mean to me!”

“Okay, I’ll do it if you never do that voice again.” He nodded vigorously, and sighing, she brought the bottle and two shot glasses from the drinks tray—it was one of those nice crystal sets, maybe a gift—to the sofa, where she sat beside him. Hiccup took one of the glasses and let her pour him a shot; he took it before she’d even fixed her own, and thrust the glass back for another. “Wow,” she said, grinning, “Sad Hiccup is weirdly fun.”

“You have no idea.” They did her first and his second shot together—he tried to go for a third, but Astrid put her hand over his, snorting.

“In a little while. Let the first two do their magic, okay?” He frowned, shrugged.

She spied Val’s record player and popped to her feet. The apartment was quiet and darkish and empty, strange to her tastes. Used to the bright fluorescents of the dorm, the soft yellow light of table and floor lamps made her drowsy, or not quite alert—or perhaps it was the vodka going to work. Outside, the whole city had gone white.

“It’s really coming down out there,” she observed, pausing to watch the snow for a moment. It was strange for her, to see so much of it, _all_ the time. Before coming to NYU, she’d seen snow once in her life, on a family vacation in Colorado. And they were in the mountains—here, it snowed in the city, it snowed on top of nine million people. She got to her knees to flip through the records on the shelf beneath the player, and then noted for the first time Hiccup’s odd silence—when she eyed him over her shoulder, he glanced away, cleared his throat. She knew that look. He had been staring at her ass. She tried not to laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, like he was forcing down a feeling, “We might have to stay here tonight.”

“We’ll see about that,” she replied, drawing out one of the records. “Wow. Your mom was definitely alive in the ‘60s.”

Hiccup exhaled as if this were a longstanding problem in his life, which she guessed it might be. “Yep, she definitely was. You’re not going to find anything over there more current than like, ’78.”

“I can handle that. I’ve got taste.” She pulled out the vinyl and laid it on the player, then set the needle in place. The music started up, and Astrid hopped to her feet, starting to sway. She sang along,

_I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day,_

_When it’s cold outside I’ve got the month of May_ …

“Wow,” said Hiccup, very slowly, eyes wide on the cusp of cracking up. “Hard to believe I’m the one that did two shots.”

“Hey!” Shamed from her dancing, Astrid fell back beside him on the couch. “I’m just trying to cheer you up, loser.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “You don’t need to try.”

A little discomforted by how casually sweet this was, Astrid shifted an inch away from where he sat. Hiccup gazed forlornly at the vodka, on the floor by their feet. “So how are you doing?” she asked. Tough not to be tentative, given how she’d already watched him explode once today, but she figured the firmer she sounded the more stable he’d feel.

Hiccup sighed tremendously, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his fingers, dragging his hands toward his cheekbones and then down to his chin. He had a scar there, which maybe she’d seen before, but she’d never quite noticed it. Instinctively, she reached out a hand, but stopped herself in time to gesture at the old wound from a respectful distance. “What happened there?”

“What?” he blurted, surprised to find her nearly touching him, until he caught her meaning. “Oh. I’ve had it since I was a baby. When my parents were still together, they had this old dog, he scratched me.” Hiccup paused, hearing what he’d just said, and rolled his eyes. “When they were _still_ together. God. Fuck my life.”

Playing a little goofy for his benefit, Astrid winced. “Did you know I’m totally a dog person?”

“Really? That must be why we don’t get along at all.”

She laughed, a rowdy exclamation. “Yeah, that must be it.” Taking a deep breath, Astrid watched his profile. “So do you think it’s serious? Between them?”

He grabbed the vodka and got them their shot glasses, which essentially answered her question, but he explained as he poured, too. “I mean, they’ve known each other for so long. When they’re like that, can it actually _be_ casual?”

“Do you think they’ll get married again?” From the noise he made, this was as a rough suggestion to make. “Sorry, I was just…”

“No, it’s fine, it’s a legitimate question.” He shrugged and did his shot, and she quickly followed suit. After half a minute of coughing—the vodka seemed drier, this time around—he managed to reply. “If they do, it’ll confirm that I’m never getting married. Like, ever.”

Astrid licked the last little bit of vodka out of her glass, feeling him watch the gesture with likely perverse fascination. “You don’t want to get married?”

“Can you blame me?”

“Guess not.” She patted the couch. “Is this even from Sofa King? Can that bode well for their relationship?”

Hiccup laughed and hopped in his seat, reminded of something. “Did you know that my dad owns a furniture company, but all the furniture in his flat is antique?”

For some reason—actually, she suspected it was the two shots she’d done in the span of fifteen minutes—this was the funniest thing Astrid had heard in a long time, and they both fell back against the sofa giggling. Mutual euphoria. She had to catch her breath; recovered, she found him staring at her. A loaded look. “Thank you for being here for me,” he said in a low voice.

 _Oh fuck_ , she thought, but she thought it in the best way—shame, excitement. He had broken up with his girlfriend of three months not a few hours ago. Her stomach was warm, so liquored up. Hiccup had on that half-lidded expression of contemplation, lips parted, their twitches loaded with admiration and want. He leaned in, hesitated. _Come on_. She didn’t know why—it was almost shocking to be so certain about this—but she understood that he needed to start. Maybe she didn’t want to feel like she was taking advantage.

When he kissed her, and he did, finally, it was warm and he tasted like vodka. Soft at first, then harder, she wasn’t sure which one of them initiated this deeper, dirtier kiss. She _did_ know that she was getting familiar with his tongue, and that it felt good, and that she needed more. She knew he was fucking hot and she was stupid for ever trying to tell herself otherwise. He grabbed her ass and pulled her in, then pressed her back against the sofa, dragging his mouth to her neck. She arched against the touch; feeling his hand slipping down, toying with the hem of her shirt, undoing the button on her jeans, Astrid had the strong, slick thought that she wanted him to make her come. It had been a long time for her. Being touched kindled anticipation all over her and especially between her legs, she was about ready to shove his goddamn hand down there herself when his breath brushed her ear.

“Astrid, is it…” He had a finger beneath the waistband of her panties, stroking the soft skin there. She was so wet, she wanted to _kill_ him, except she wanted to do the opposite of kill him, really. Like, the _complete_ opposite.

She said what she could, which was, “Do something.” This was fucking nasty, getting fingered on the couch in her professor’s apartment by a drunken guy who’d been through a hell of a day, just out of his first ever relationship, an emotional wreck. Yeah, it was fucking awful, and she only wanted it more. Between all the accolades, the diving championships and scholarships and student council presidencies, between volunteering at soup kitchens and helping her friends through their break-ups, she got to be bad sometimes. She’d earned this.

“Tell me if it’s okay,” he muttered, and slid his hand down, pressed his thumb against her clit, making her whimper. His lips back on her neck—he wanted to hear the sounds she was making, probably, she would have too—he teased her with his finger, then slid one in, and another. Between the pressing, rubbing on her clit and the rhythmic thrusting he started up with his fingers, and how turned on she was by the sight of Hiccup at her side, doing this to her, loving that he did this to her, it didn’t take long before she felt it, and she dragged him on top of her, grasp fisting around the fabric of his hoodie—their mouths met again, slippery in a way that reminded her filthily again of his hand, and she bucked against the motion, trying to get him to go faster, which he did. She impaled herself on that hand, thinking every second how wrong it was of her and knowing she would come harder for it. And she did, she started to come, accidentally nipping his lip in their kiss, and when he pulled away his face had opened blissfully, meaning he’d probably fucking come in his pants, a thought that carried her through the rest of the orgasm, and it was a damn good one.

Afterwards, he pulled his hand free and slunk to the floor, leaning against the couch. Astrid sat there, heaving and shaking, head back. From their kiss to her orgasm, maybe five minutes had passed. It was nothing, it was the blink of an eye and suddenly they were… With a mean grin, he wiped his fingers on the upholstery between her legs. Watching this gesture, the wrongness of it—which had been hotter than anything a minute ago—warped, soured, solidified. What the fuck had she just done?

He pressed his cheek to her thigh, wrapping a hand around her leg, small sigh.

“Did you come?” she asked, wanting to touch his hair but refusing to let herself, because she knew what had to happen now.

Hiccup grinned up at her, a little sheepish. “Do you want me to lie?”

“No. I’d feel bad if you didn’t get off.”

“Then don’t feel bad.”

“Okay.” She started to do up her jeans. “You should go clean yourself up, then.”

“Wait,” he said, confused, holding her back from standing. “My room’s like, right down the hall, let’s… I mean, you didn’t really think I was just going to do that, did you?” Astrid smiled weakly and extracted herself from his arms so she could get up from the couch. Hiccup too climbed to his feet, following her with a puzzled face, a good face, an endearing face. When she turned away from him, so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore, he pressed his nose into the hair behind her ear and said, “I’ll eat you out,” and she honestly didn’t know how she managed what she did next—Astrid pushed him away and, facing him, took a step back.

“We can’t, Hiccup.”

It would’ve been easier if she didn’t have to look at him. She was crushing him, she’d dangled this in front of him and now she was going to take it away—she should never have let him, oh, she’d fucked up, she’d fucked up _good_. “What do you mean, we can’t?” he said, shaking his head. She loved the stretch of his shirt’s thin cotton across his torso. They were degenerates, the both of them, really.

“You broke up with Heather like—hours ago!”

“So? So? I don’t…” The visible anger that came over him only proved what she had suspected—he was doing this for the wrong reasons. Using her. He wanted her, but mainly he wanted to feel better.

She put her hands between them, like it might steady him. “You’re upset, you’re drunk, and you need someone, but I don’t—I don’t want to be your rebound.”

“My _rebound_?” he said, and it did, the agitation arrived out of nowhere. “If you don’t want… You’ve got a funny way of showing it—”

“I should have stopped you, I’m sorry, I wanted it too—”

“Yeah. You did.” A muscle in his jaw flinched. Infuriatingly, it turned her on, too—she liked him a little worked up, she realized. 

“We’re making a habit of this, this drinking, and…”

“ _You’re_ making a habit of it!” he cried, which wasn’t fair. The first time had been her, but this time, she was the sober one, stopping him from making a mistake.

“This isn’t how you want us to happen, Hiccup,” she told him, in her best imitation of reason, “This isn’t how _I_ want us to happen.”

He drew back, away from her, mouth falling open. “Us? You’re talking about _us?_ You don’t want _us_ , Astrid, you just want—” He gestured to the couch, to the vacancy they’d left after their half-fuck. “You—and _Heather_ —you don’t want an _us_!”

Correcting him—she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t say it, it was too soon and he wouldn’t believe her, and what was the point of opening her chest like that if he only wanted to spit at whatever she had to share? “Heather didn’t—I’m not her, okay?”

“You’re right, at least Heather didn’t decide not to fuck me after she found out about my leg.”

Tears swelled behind her eyes, she could’ve crawled up and died with the way he was looking at her, so fundamentally injured, when—how could he _think_ that of her, when they’d been friends, good friends, _best_ friends? “That’s not what I… I didn’t mean it that way, that’s not what happened.”

But he didn’t care. Couldn’t be convinced. “You know, when I started dating a dark-haired girl, I was like, oh, I don’t have a _type_!” He snatched the vodka from the floor, and she moved to take it from him, he’d had more than her—he was sloshed right now, she could see it in the way he moved—he turned to her, eerily composed.

“Please don’t come near me.”

Astrid fell back, hugging herself. She grappled for a way to spin out of this, a recovery, a thing she could say to make him understand what she was doing. But he was so stubborn, wasn’t he. “I’m really sorry, Hiccup, it’s just… in a few months when you feel better you’ll thank me, it’s for the best, I promise.”

“Best for who?”

She shut her eyes. When she opened them again, he was doing another shot. “I can’t leave you here alone if you’re going to drink more.”

He screwed the top back on the liquor. “Perfect, because the prospect of you leaving is about the only thing that could get me to stop drinking.”

“Okay,” she breathed, and moved toward the door, footsteps heavy. Astrid dragged on her boots, her big red coat. It would be miserable outside, but she didn’t care, it was more miserable in here.

“Good luck getting home,” he said, rather bitter. When she glanced back at him, he’d collapsed on the sofa, wound into a little ball. Oddly, distantly, the record player was still going. Playing out a sad old song.

A last resort, knowing how desperate she sounded and figuring it was the only way to communicate how sorry she was, she said, “I really care about you a lot, Hic.” He didn’t reply. “Go to bed, or something.” She knew what she was doing was right: she had been through this with Ben. If she’d let something happen between them in that bathroom stall, she and Hiccup would’ve gone down in flame, and if she’d let something happen between them now, the same danger existed, only Hiccup was now the volatile party. And it was true, she cared about him, she didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and think how she’d really helped out a friend. Because they were more than that. Already, without any of the kissing or the sex—it could wait. It would have to. Hiccup would have to see that lust had very little to do with how she felt about him. She understood now, there was no helping him see.

Astrid left, going out into what was now a blizzard. The snow ploughs barreled by as she made for the subway. She paused by the entrance to look out at the still white plane of Central Park, assaulted by the downward slope of the oncoming snow.

* * *

Hiccup lay on the couch. In about six hours, he’d fucked things up with his parents, his girlfriend, and his best friend. It was a bad feeling. He felt sick—he went into the bathroom and threw up and took a quick shower. When he got out, someone was pounding on the front door. He scrambled into his fresh clothes and went to answer it.

Astrid. He was excited to see her for a second, before he remembered why she’d left.

“What’re you—”

“Put on your coat, quick,” she ordered. She had a weird glow about her, either she was thrilled or cold.

“Get out of here,” he said through his teeth, and started to close the door in her face, but Astrid shoved it open. She was stronger than him.

“ _Put on your coat_ , come on, it’s important!”  
“ _What’s_ important?”

“I’m saving our friendship—just put on your fucking _coat_ , Haddock!”

This scared him a bit. He put on his coat, and let himself be dragged down the stairs, and along several blocks—careful of the icy patches and his leg—until they arrived at Central Park. He was trying to mediate his surprise at… whatever was going on, and his continued frustration with Astrid, and the still-disconcerting aspect of his blood alcohol content. She led him a little ways into the park; they were wading through at least six inches of downy whiteness.

And then, she swung around to face him. “Okay. Hit me.”

He squinted at her in the poor light provided by the path lamps. Her yellow hair was crunchy with ice; his own not-quite-dry locks felt chilly against him. “Hit you?” he repeated.

“Yeah. You’re mad at me and I know you’re mad and I understand why, so—” She bent down and scooped up some snow, packed it in her hands, and—hurled it at him. Hiccup yelped as the snowball hit his chest.

“What are you _doing_?”

“You get me, now! As many as you want.” She raised her arms. “Come on. You know you want to.”

Weirdly, he did.

He mirrored what she’d done before. Scoop, pack. A familiar gesture from his childhood, but it had been… years since he’d made a snowball. He tossed it at her so weakly it didn’t even explode, just fell to the ground whole.

“ANOTHER,” she roared, and he did it again—better—and a third time, hard enough that she turned away, laughing.

“Okay,” he announced, pointing to a series of trees, “That’s Heather, that’s my mom, that’s my dad—”

“That’s my ex,” Astrid added, prepping a projectile for herself.

For ten minutes, they peppered the trees, screaming war cries. They lobbed them at each other, running in circles. It was exhausting and ecstatic. When they left, going to the subway, the new snow filled in the manic tracks they’d made. 


	16. Happy Birthday, Mr Haddock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was a whirlwind, eh?

Hiccup had not been taking his parents’ calls. At first Astrid only suspected this—she had seen him ignore his phone a couple of times at dinner, and Dr. Larama acted oddly in office hours a few days later, as if she wanted to ask about her son but feared it might exacerbate the situation. Not that Astrid had any complaints; she didn’t exactly feel like expanding on the extent of Hiccup’s emotional crisis, the things it had lead him to do, lead him to say. And how would she explain her intimacy with the facts? How would she explain her own role in his distress? And to his  _mother_ —no, it was better that Dr. Larama hadn’t asked. But she’d wanted to.

Yet Hiccup’s determined ignorance became a problem of sorts, when his birthday rolled around a couple of weeks later. Well, not his _exact_ birthday: February 29 th, he explained, was his actual birthday, but since this happened to be Leap Day, it only came once every four years.

“It’s mind-blowing,” Tuff announced over the birthday lunch they all shared at the Chinese place, with eggrolls Hiccup claimed were the best in Manhattan. “It’s like you weren’t even born on a real day. It’s like you don’t even exist. You’re like this dumpling.” He lifted the dumpling, showing it to his audience—his sister, Fish, Hiccup and Astrid, even Snot—the two apartments minus Heather. Tuff ate the dumpling in a single bite and said with full cheeks, “ _Noff freahl._ ”

Fish turned to Hiccup, his fascination slightly less ridiculous. “So are you—I mean, in theory…”

Hiccup smiled like he got this question a lot. Which, she considered, he probably did. “I’m four and a half years old. Yeah.”

Snot spit out a bit of his drink. “You’re _four years old!_ That’s like a little baby!” Astrid eyed Snot across the table. It was weird, he’d shoehorned his way into coming along to what was explicitly a gathering for _friends_. But in the five or so weeks they’d been back at school, she noticed something different about the fourth and broadest-shouldered resident of 8B. He wasn’t wearing his Delta Psi shirt. He hung around the apartment much more than he’d used to, starting casual conversations with the other boys, and no one had seen Eret since before Christmas. Rush week for the frats was in early spring. She’d begun to suspect that the break-up with Ruff had gotten Snot booted from Eret’s favor, and from Delta Psi entirely.

Of course, this realization begged another, more difficult question: if Eret didn’t want anything to do with Snot in the wake of getting dumped, what had he been doing at Snot’s apartment that night they’d made out? Or maybe she didn’t want to know.

“A _little baby_?” Hiccup repeated, sounding more annoyed with how little sense this made as an insult than with the insult itself.

“Yeah, a—” Snot spied Astrid glaring at him and shrunk a little. “A cute baby?” he finished, weak.

“You think the skinny weirdo’s a cute baby?” Ruff squinted at Snot, her mouth twisting skeptically. Snot stared at her, like he hadn’t heard what she’d said but was astonished to find her talking to him. The weird moment supported Astrid’s deduction about the downfall of Snot and Eret’s friendship.

“He’s not _that_ cute,” Tuff declared, assessing Hiccup with a frown.

Hiccup, the guest of honor, sighed and put his chin in his hands. “Well, I’m glad we could all gather here today to celebrate me on my fake birthday.” He caught Astrid’s eye further down the table, and grinned.

“An almost celebration for an almost birthday,” she chimed. He kept grinning at her—things between them were… well. She didn’t quite know. Good. Fine. Civil. A little tense. After their therapeutic snowball fight, they hadn’t deigned to really discuss what happened, but what was there to say? _Yes, a filthy horrible (great) sex act happened between us. Yes, it meant something. No, there’s nothing we can do about it right now_. There wasn’t. She could see his misery thinly veiled by eggrolls and comically insufficient celebration. She was worried about her own patience—she’d already had to wait for herself to get over Ben, and now she had to wait for him to get over Heather? Maddening. Especially with the filthy horrible (great) preview of things to come. And come and come and come. God, she _was_ horny.

When they arrived back at 8B—Hiccup had requested a marathon D&D session for the bulk of that Saturday—there were a couple of guys standing by the door with two boxes, a huge one and a slightly smaller one, who insisted on getting his signature on “the delivery,” though he explained several times over that he hadn’t ordered anything. The guys left and the six of them dragged the boxes inside.

“Oh my god,” said Hiccup, when the gang had gotten the first box open.

It was a big screen TV. Like, a _big_ screen TV—fifty-three inches! For about a minute, they all just stood there staring at it in all its expensive, sleek, new glory.

Then Hiccup burst out, distressed, “They’re _literally_ trying to buy me!”

“If you don’t like that TV you’re definitely not going to like this console,” said Tuff, holding up the contents of the second box—the latest Playstation. Astrid put her head in her hands. Dr. Larama couldn’t afford these things on her own, which meant that they either came from Hiccup’s father, or they purchased them together. The latter of these two options was especially daunting. It meant that his parents were not merely sleeping together; they were _dating_. The wedding she and Hiccup discussed flashed through Astrid’s head: the Larama-Haddock couple would dance, reunited, while their son glowered in the corner and drank all their champagne. That was the pattern she’d sensed.

Fishlegs read the note that had come with the gifts: “‘To our son on his birthday.’” _Our_ son—Astrid winced, and glanced at Hiccup, who was grinding his teeth as he glared at the Playstation. “‘Please give us a call.’ Why haven’t you called your parents, Hiccup? This is really nice of them,” Fish observed, peering lustily at the swag.

“I haven’t called _them_ because there is no _them_. They’re divorced. They don’t live together, they don’t share a phone. I can call my mom—” Irritated, Hiccup started stomping around, collecting the packaging they’d scattered over the living room. “I can call my dad—” He dragged the large box back toward the new television. “But I can’t call _them_. We’re returning all this stuff.”

Collectively the gang cried out in horror—and Astrid in frustration with him, not that you could tell the difference. “Hiccup,” she reprimanded, and got between him and the TV, so he was forced to stop packing it up and could only stamp the floor huffily, hands on his hips. “This is shitty of them, I know, but just—reap the rewards, they’re clearly trying, you might as well enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it?” echoed Hiccup, as though this were a ridiculous suggestion.

“Oh my _god_ ,” groaned Ruff, collapsing on to the couch. “You’re so dumb, it’s an awesome TV and a thing for nerds, _obviously_ you’re going to enjoy it.” Hiccup looked from Ruff back to Astrid, incredulous, but she could only shrug. Ruff was right.

After a long, pathetic moment of deliberation, in which everyone stared at him and he stared back at them, Hiccup threw his hands in the air. “All right! Fine! We’ll keep the TV and the console and my dignity will be compromised, but you know, did I even need dignity anyway?” His sarcasm was lost on them, however, as Tuff had already started whooping, and Fish was helping Snot to move their old, tiny television out of the way.

They spent the rest of the afternoon setting everything up, taking turns playing games, and eating the cake that Tuff had prepared. He was a surprisingly good baker. Well, not _that_ surprising.

Hiccup declined to play, himself; he sat on the floor beside the couch and watched everyone else having a raucous time. Astrid tried to forget his disgruntled, dampening presence, but when he was off, she felt off, too. She didn’t like that. There was something faintly psychic about it, something that unsettled her. Eventually, she couldn’t stand it, and got another couple slices of cake and went to sit cross-legged next to him.

“Hey,” she said. He accepted the new round of cake wordlessly, digging in. She let his silence slide, for a moment—after all, with the shouting involvement in some first-person shooter about two feet from them, it wasn’t quiet. Then, in a low voice, she said, “You don’t have to call them until you’re ready, but you do have to do it, you know.”

Eyes on his plate, Hiccup’s brow furrowed, and he let out a sigh that just barely rustled her bangs. “Yeah. I know. It’s just… a lot right now, everything. I have to figure out what I’m doing this summer. Heck, I have to figure out what I’m doing for spring break in like—two weeks, because I don’t think I can just sit around in the apartment, I’m gonna go insane—”

“Oh, wait.” Astrid looked over to Ruff. “Did you not tell him about the Hamptons?”

Hiccup squinted. “The Hamptons?”

Ruff’s attention was drawn from a hilarious scenario in which Fishlegs had gotten his avatar stuck between a rock and a hard place—literally—and was trying to negotiate the glitch, frantic. “Yeah, right,” Ruff waved it off, “We thought he’d say no so we were just going to kidnap him the day of.” Hiccup shot her a dirty look, until Astrid snapped a finger in his face to bring him back to her.

“Ruff wanted to mess with Eret,” she explained, “So we all split the price of the house out there that Delta Psi always rents for spring break.” Snot’s participation in this scheme had further clued Astrid in to his split from the fraternity—in fact, he’d seemed pretty enthused about it, so she suspected the break hadn’t been clean. She watched Hiccup turn the plan over in his head, a tiny smile on his lips, probably imagining the delightfully stricken reaction Eret must’ve had to the news. It was Eret’s senior year—spring break was the last big blowout before graduation. And they’d fucked him over. Astrid had transferred a lot of the blame for her near-hook-up with Eret on to him. He wanted to go through with it, after all, with his ex’s roommate and good friend! Yeah. He deserved to get fucked over. She decided, squashing any thought to the contrary, that she didn’t feel bad at all.

“Does he know it’s us who took the house?” asked Hiccup, looking two shades more chipper with this news.

“I don’t know. Ruff said they might get a different house in that neighborhood, so I guess they’ll be able to see.” She poked his knee. “So, are you coming? It’ll be lots of drinking and we can run down the beach like in that movie.”

“Yeah, sure. Sounds fun.” He took another bite of cake.

“So, what are your options for the summer?” she asked, trying to sound upbeat and engaged, but he deflated a little.

“Uh. Well. Mom’s been wanting me to take classes and get some credits. Dad says I should be at Sofa King, they’ll give me an internship, or something. I think he sees me running the company, someday.” From the couch, their friends let out a group screech—Fishlegs had taken a wrong step and accidentally fallen to his death. Hiccup looked appropriately dour. “They both want me in New York.”

She asked the obvious question, obviously, “And what do you want?”

Hiccup scowled and pulled his knee to his chest, rested his chin on it. “Every summer since…since I was fifteen, I went to this summer camp upstate for disabled kids. It’s like a regular summer camp but everything’s accessible and there’s less canoeing.” Astrid giggled, and she caught him smile at that. It was nice. “So yeah, they’re hiring counselors. I’d go live in the woods and teach kids arts and crafts all summer.”

“That would be really cool. You’re good at arts and crafts. You could do papier-mâché.”

“And I wouldn’t be in New York.” The smile had vanished. “I think I’d like that. To get away for a while.” She nodded, and he glanced up at her quickly, clearing his throat. “What are you doing this summer?”

“I’m applying for internships at some of the big clinics in Los Angeles.”

“So,” he said slowly, “Not New York?”

“No, why?”

He eyed their friends—Tuff had taken the controller and the rest of them were trying to explain the difference between the ‘shoot’ and the ‘jump’ buttons. Then Hiccup said to her, quietly, glancing at the floor, “Because I maybe wouldn’t mind being in New York so much, if…”

Astrid took a deep breath. He looked back to her, nervously searching her face. She could’ve shoved him, he was being so stupid. She knew, she _knew_ , it would be another couple of months before Hiccup should begin to even think of—and she thought the word to herself now, for the first time in conjunction with them—dating. Maybe he would be ready _by_ the end of the semester, but not before then, and she didn’t want them to have a few weeks and then have to part ways for the whole summer. They’d see each other in September. She just had to wait for _September_. Twelve weeks. Fuck, this was weird. Thinking of emotional healing like a gestation period. But it was the only way to keep herself from doing something stupid, and hurtful to them both.

“I think it would probably be good for you to get out of Dodge for a bit.” She put a hand on his shoulder, felt muscle and bone and warmth. Very human. “And that’s what you want to do. So go for it.”

Watching her, his expression darkened, but he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“And you don’t know that things aren’t going to be better with your mom and dad in a few months. Maybe it won’t even be running away, it’ll just be clearing your head.”

Hiccup laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “What’s funny is, I always thought running away from your problems was kind of underrated.”

* * *

That week, Astrid cornered Ruff in the apartment when she knew Heather wouldn’t be home.

“We need to talk about housing for next year. Applications are due in a couple weeks.”

Ruff groaned, and plopped down into a chair like Astrid had chained her there. “What’s to talk about?”

Astrid sat across from her, frowning seriously. She’d been stewing over this ever since Hiccup and Heather’s cataclysmic split. Heather, once the presenter of hesitant olive branches, had been stone cold to Astrid of late. “I think we should go for a five-person apartment with me and you, and Tuff and Fish and Hiccup.” Thinking about the five of them living together filled her with the kind of goopy pleasantness she would never admit to feeling outright, the same sentiment that got her when she looked forward to seeing her family, all seated in the living room on Christmas morning.

Ruff stared at her. “You want me to live with skinny weirdo and the fluffy one?” ‘The fluffy one’ sounded like code for Fish; Astrid was sure that, after knowing the boys for over six months, and considering their friendship with Tuff, Ruff remembered their names. Astrid figured it was some kind of weird power play—she had done it to Astrid, too, intentional mixed up facts about her. She almost wanted to ask if there was a reason, but now didn’t seem like good time.

“Well, I mean, they’re clean and not rowdy and—”

Her roommate leaned over the kitchen table, narrowing her eyes. “ _You_ just want Hiccup easily accessible, don’t you?”

Astrid’s stomach dropped. “What? What do you— _easily accessible_?”

“For booty calls!”

“I don’t booty call Hiccup, Ruff!”

She expected her roommate to blow raspberries, or to scoff at her denial, but instead, Ruff paused. She looked at Astrid—really _looked_ at her, made her feel a bit uncomfortable, actually. “Right,” said Ruff, as though she were realizing something, “You don’t booty call him, do you?”

All Astrid could think to say was, “No,” and it came out small and embarrassed at that.

“Well, for the record.” Ruff still spoke in that knowing tone, barely concealing a smirk. “You don’t want to room with someone you’re dating. That’d be a disaster. Kills it in the bud.” Ruff’s eyes were certainly on her, but Astrid couldn’t manage the composure necessary to disguise the truly cutting effect this ‘advice’ had on her: she put her head in her hands.

“All right,” she groaned, hearing her own voice distorted by her hands pressing against her mouth, “What do we do instead?”

“We keep everything the same. We can cluster with the four guys so we all get in the same building, and it’ll be me and you and Heather.”

Astrid peeked at her roommate. “That might be wishful thinking.”

“Why?”

“Heather and I…”

“Do you have any _other_ friends we could ask?”

She poked through the mental rolodex of friends and teammates, but the situation wasn’t good. “Uh…”

“Yeah,” said Ruff glumly. “Me either. We need to get out more.” They shared an exasperated look, searching their memories for another unsuccessful moment, and then Astrid shook her head.

“As far as Heather’s concerned, I’m basically Hiccup. Which is about the worst thing I could be right now, to her.”

“Listen, Heather’s a total Veronica.” The reference startled a laugh out of them both, just when she needed it. “Say you want to move on and be friends or whatever, and she’ll come around.”

“Otherwise I’ll just have to hope her teen-angst bullshit doesn’t get a body count,” Astrid cracked, and Ruff high-fived her across the table. They were very proud of themselves.

“See,” Ruff told her, “Why _wouldn’t_ she want to be our roommate?”   


	17. Adult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing to keep in mind, as the slow burn continues: it feels a lot slower to those of you who have been with me from the beginning. As a completed piece, I want the fic to still have that same, tantalizing build, so yeah, it’s slow—but I need it to be. That said, it won’t be long now. Stay tuned.

_You are an adult_ .

Astrid sucked her lip. She took a deep breath. Heather’s door sat bluntly in front of her, not moving, not giving way to something simpler or more pleasant.

 _You are an adult. Adults can do these things_.

Another deep breath. She raised her fist, and hovered an inch from the surface of the door. And then, finally, she rapped her knuckles against it, knock knock knock, in quick succession.

Inside, she heard the creak of furniture, and footsteps. A click and the door slid away from Astrid; Heather peeked her head out. Annoyance dawned on her expression when she saw that her visitor was Astrid—homewrecker, demon, occasional not-replacer of the toilet paper roll. But it was only annoyance. No punches thrown.

“What?” she asked simply. She might have been trying to hide some of her anger, even. So far, not so bad?

“Can I talk to you?”

“About what?”

The long pause before Astrid gave her would-be answer told Heather everything, it seemed. She sighed and stepped back to let her in.

“You better not be here on his behalf or anything.”

“I’m not. Just me.” She’d been in Heather’s room a couple times before, but some of the details were new to her. Heather didn’t like the overhead fluorescents, and instead lit her space with a reading lamp and a bunch of Christmas lights. It made a person sleepy. “Can I sit?” she asked her roommate, indicating the desk chair. Heather gave a nod and climbed back on to her bed, where it looked like she’d been annotating a script. She was in her pajamas. Big t-shirt and boxer shorts. A jealous part of her wondered if they were Hiccup’s, even though it didn’t make sense—why would she keep a memento of someone if she didn’t even want to say his name?

Now sitting, Astrid ran her hands briskly along her thighs. Heather did nothing to disguise her impatience: she watched Astrid with narrow eyes and an eyebrow quirked, skeptical. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yeah. Okay. Right.” Astrid glanced at the ceiling. She had rarely feared being direct like this—being direct was one of her specialties. It came easily, automatically. Except when she had to humble herself. “I’m sorry.” Heather shifted in her seat, sighing. “For everything—for how I’ve acted to you, for siding with Hiccup—”

“No, it’s fine, I know why you did that.” Astrid shrunk a little and Heather, seeing this, snorted. “What, you thought I didn’t see it? Why do you think I asked if I could go for him in the first place?” Astrid stared at the carpet. Her past self embarrassed her with pride, and blindness. “I didn’t think you’d lie about it,” Heather added, gentler, her gaze drifting to the ceiling.

“Denial, I guess.”

“I get that,” she replied, with the weight of personal experience. “So, are you going to date him?”

Deciding that it was late and she didn’t care if it fucked with her make-up, Astrid rubbed her face. “God. Fuck.”

“Okay, yeah, sorry for asking,” said Heather, shaking her head. She might have been about to laugh.

“Gonna give me tips?”

“Lord, no. He already likes you way more than he ever liked me.” Ostensibly this was a joke, but Astrid spied the deep frown that came over Heather’s face, and the empty stare she gave the opposite wall.

She sat forward in the chair, focusing on her roommate. They could be friends. She was sure of it. “I know I said I wasn’t here for Hiccup, but I _am_ going to apologize on his behalf.”

Heather turned to her, lips pursed, assessing Astrid, still a smidge distrustful. Heather had never struck Astrid as someone particularly comfortable with _trust_. As much as they had in common—and she knew it was a fair amount—Astrid put a high value on trust, on loyalty. Astrid wondered if she could persuade this girl to drop the act, if she could know her well enough to see more than the character Heather played. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, but it was not convincing, not a good performance.

Astrid countered flatly, “He was a real dick to you.”

Uncomfortable, Heather shrugged and adjusted her seat. Then she seemed to shrink, and her voice grew smaller, too. “I was a dick to him too.” And then, and with the first flicker of authenticity she had ever witnessed from Heather, “Did he tell you…” But her head snapped up and she looked at Astrid with huge eyes. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about this.”

“No,” she folded her arms across her chest, ready, “Tell me.”

Heather took another moment, and when she spoke again she had lost the candor that so thrilled Astrid, but she seemed sincere enough. “I think… the first thing I did was come on to him, and he responded by asking me out, and I just—thought he wanted to hang out more before we slept together.” She slid from the bed and started folding some clothes heaped on the floor; it was a tactic Astrid knew well, busying your hands to keep emotion in check. “I tried a couple more times. To sleep with him. And he kept saying no. He wanted to take it slow, he wanted me to be his girlfriend—which I thought was so weird at the time because, like, he didn’t seem _that_ into me. Now I can see I’m probably not quite the girlfriend he was looking for.” Heather tossed Astrid a grin that made her blush. She hadn’t quite realized how involved she was in Hiccup and Heather’s relationship—it had felt so different at the time, like it had nothing to do with her, kind of lonely. “When it actually happened, I think he knew I was getting frustrated, I think…” Laying a shirt in her dresser drawer, Heather paused. “I think he felt pressured. I didn’t mean it, I just…” She turned to Astrid; she scowled, but her eyes were glossy, wet. “That’s going to haunt me, isn’t it?”

Astrid the Adult was having a fucked time with this one. She sat, frightened by the plainness of emotion from this very unemotional girl—she’d wanted it a minute ago, but now that Heather had shared herself, she didn’t know what to _do_. Should she—hug her? Feelings! Fucking feelings. “I mean… I guess it—it might.” And she had this twisted knowledge, now, about Hiccup’s first time. It sounded perfectly in character. She could almost see him, flustered and frightened and determined not to show it. If he’d been there, she might have hugged _him_ instead of Heather. Okay: what would Astrid herself want to hear? “It’s done, Heather. It’s the past. You can tell him you’re sorry but—that’s it.”

“Apologize,” echoed Heather.

Astrid had another thought, and it weighed on her chest. She felt… she felt she could say it, and she had to say it. “I almost slept with him.” The words were lumpy, difficult in her mouth. Heather stuck her head forward, gaping. “That night after you guys broke up, I was trying to be supportive, and we were drinking—and he got so mad when I stopped it. Even though I said it was because I had real feelings for him and I didn’t want to be a hook-up.”

“Oh my god,” muttered Heather, falling back on to her bed.

“Sorry, you’re probably… the wrong person to tell—”

“No, I’m glad I’m not the only person who’s been beating up on him.” Astrid laughed, even though it was entirely inappropriate (she’d pay Hiccup back, she really would), and Heather laughed too.

“It’s nice to get it off my chest.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” Heather sighed, and started to braid her hair absentmindedly. “You really think I should talk to him?”

“I do. I think—” It came to Astrid, in a flash of glory, and she spoke before she could think, “You should come on spring break with all of us, if you’re not already busy.” Heather looked at her, pleased and puzzled, and the implications of the invitation began to dawn on Astrid. Namely, she’d asked Heather along so she could talk to Hiccup. She hadn’t asked Hiccup if he wanted to talk to Heather. Whoops.

“I don’t have plans. I was thinking of ditching my drama friends, they’re kind of awful,” said Heather thoughtfully.

“So you’re coming?” asked Astrid, enthusiasm feigned—damn, what had she gotten herself into?

“Yeah. I’d like to.”

“Cool.” Astrid got to her feet, resisting the urge to stub her own toe, corporeal punishment. “I’ll let you get back to work—oh, also, do you want to keep rooming with me and Ruff next year?”

Heather, whose mood lifted even further with this request, nodded. “Yes, sounds perfect!” Well. Mission accomplished.

“Great. See you later.” Astrid went back into the hall, shutting Heather’s door behind her, and she collapsed against it. Great: solve one problem, create another. “Shit,” she whispered, and stomped down the hall to her room.

* * *

“And I have water bottles, and I have baguettes, and cheese and goodies to go with them, and I have flares in case anyone gets lost on the beach, and I have candles, and I have a clock radio _with_ an alarm—”

“Seems like you’re all set, Fish,” Hiccup said, hugging the small duffel bag that held a napping Toothless.

“And I’ve got liquor!” cried Tuff, arriving with a misshapen cardboard. He glanced at some passersby on the sidewalk in front of the dorm, and added, “Legally obtained! By me, a twenty-one year old American citizen from the state of Texas, as my ID will surely reflect!” Hiccup shook his head at his roommate, and Tuff nodded quickly, piping down.

“Where are the girls?” Fish groaned. “Our train leaves in half an hour, and we’ve got to get all the way to Penn Station still.”

“They’re probably doing their like—their like make-up, and giggling,” Tuff tried to mime this, but it left Hiccup wondering if he’d ever seen a human woman in the flesh before.

“Actually, we were here fifteen minutes ago,” came Astrid’s voice, smug, and Hiccup whirled around. He’d started getting full-on heart palpitations at the sight of her, his ears would perk at the sound of her name, he watched her every move. It was worse than it had ever been, even when they’d first met. Like _pining_ levels. Did she know she tended to play with her bangs when she was working on a tough homework assignment? The difficulty, aside from his slow descent into insanity, was that he couldn’t tell if it was genuine pining, or some kind of emotional desperation. He had a void to fill and she was the only one for the job. She’d already been so supportive—was he projecting? The intensity of it struck him as unhealthy.

The three girls had appeared with their bags on the sidewalk, coffees in hand, Astrid and Ruff and Heather, all ready to—wait.

Their eyes met. He could see her fighting to ooze confident; Hiccup knew that expression well, like she reserved it for him. He’d never enjoyed it, not when he just wanted to be real with her.

“Oh, and,” Astrid’s nonchalance was carefully constructed, “I invited Heather to come with us. I hope that’s okay with everyone.”

“Awesome,” said Tuff. Fish waved at the newest member of their party, and wondered out loud if he had enough baguettes. Ruff was clearly fighting off an eye roll—she could sense the tension that had erupted between Hiccup and Heather, there in the sidewalk. He found himself punching down another rage. _Astrid_ had done this. He hadn’t seen Heather since the break-up a month ago, he’d been avoiding her like the plague, and Astrid had just… Right when he’d thought they were starting to get somewhere. Right when he’d thought _he_ was starting to get somewhere.

“Who are we waiting on?” Ruff demanded, peering around the group. “Snot, right?” She stepped in front of Hiccup, breaking his trancelike glower at Heather, and, startled by his own rage, he turned away from her and Astrid.

Just then, Snot appeared at the entrance to the dorm and barreled toward them, a wireframe backpack slung over one shoulder. “I’m here! Unf! Ready to party. Let’s go.”

It was rather an awkward journey for Hiccup, Heather, and Astrid, but the other four friends had a grand old time. Tuff told his best anti-jokes (“What’s brown and sticky? A stick!”) and the three of them passed judgment in earnest. Hiccup had a terrible feeling that the discrepancy between their two experiences would be a running theme for this trip. And he’d been so _hopeful_ —hopeful that he could finally relax, hopeful he would have a good time with his friends, hopeful that something might happen between him and Astrid. To her credit, she spent most of the train ride pouting sympathetically in his direction. She’d probably have an explanation, once they got a chance to be alone. Heather sat quietly by the window and watched the south shore of Long Island roll by, the Brooklyn brownstones turning to white houses and soccer fields and finally, ocean.

He kept Toothless in the duffel on his lap, with the zipper cracked so he could get some air. His plan had been to reveal the existence of the cat once they got to the beach house. He expected everyone to be delighted, but now, grumpily, he wanted to keep his pet to himself. None of them _deserved_ Toothless.

He’d sat as far away as he could from Heather, but they had to transfer about an hour and a half into the trip, which left them all standing on the platform for twenty minutes while they waited for the train to Hampton Bays. Heather was a foot from him, trying to catch his eye, but he kept his gaze trained on the tracks. Toothless woke with the cold— _spring_ break was a misnomer, in mid-March the temperatures were still frigid, especially out from the city. The cat started kicking in his bag and, deciding he didn’t give a fuck, Hiccup pulled him out.

Fish was the first one to see. “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT CAT?”

“He’s my cat.”

“You have a cat?” Tuff asked. Suddenly they were all crowding around him, peering at Toothless. He unzipped his jacket and let the cat climb in, then rezipped it, so his little head poked out beneath Hiccup’s chin.

“Yeah, I’ve been keeping him in my room since September.” He spied Heather half-smiling at Toothless, who she knew pretty well at this point. Her happiness made him angry. She did not get to delight in their memories.

“ _We_ have a cat?” Tuff asked again, excited.

“Look at his eyes!” Ruff poked her face toward Toothless. Snot, with uncharacteristic gentleness, stroked the cat’s ears until he whacked Hiccup in the chin and stomped away, sheepish.

“I _knew_ that was cat hair,” muttered Fishlegs. “What if Residence Life finds out?”

“They’ll only find out if someone rats on me.” Hiccup looked around at his friends, daring any one of them. Perhaps this wasn’t the most sensitive way to go about asking for secrecy, but in his defense, he felt _very_ grumpy.

For the first time since they’d left Penn, Astrid stepped forward to speak. She was bundled into her red coat and a big white scarf. “No one’s going to tell. Right, guys?” She sounded diplomatic, and Hiccup knew she only got diplomatic when he couldn’t be diplomatic himself. Which was his first clue to stop acting like an asshole.

Tuff raised a hand to pledge. “Scout’s honor that I’ll lie my butt off.” The others nodded their consent.

“Thanks, gang,” Hiccup managed. He scratched Toothless’s head, and they got distracted as the next train arrived. This one was emptier than the last, and Hiccup tried to occupy his own row, which was going fine until Astrid appeared in the aisle and plunked down beside him. She spoke in a low voice, even though she didn’t need to—everyone else was completely absorbed in a loud game of Would You Rather.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Heather laughed boisterously at something Tuff had said, drawing both Hiccup and Astrid’s attention to her for a moment. They exchanged a loaded glance: at least Astrid understood why he was upset, now.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you I invited her.”

Hiccup sighed. Toothless rose and fell with the motion. The warmth of the jacket and Hiccup’s own body had put him to sleep. “Whatever,” he muttered, staring out the window at the streaky beach.

“I think you guys should talk. I think you could be friends.”

The arrogance of such a suggestion—it was infuriating, how she thought she knew what was best. How she thought she knew everything. “You don’t get to decide whether or not Heather and I are going to be friends, Astrid. We decide that.”

Hardened by his tone, she sat back, losing some niceness. “You could try talking to her, then, if it’s such a joint decision.”

“Like she’d talk to me.”

“Why do you think she’s here?” He eyed her, squinting, and she shrugged: _duh_. “That’s why I said she could come. She wants to apologize.”

An apology from Heather. For what? There were too many options, but maybe he just felt especially wronged. “You know, Astrid,” he thought out loud, “You really got yourself involved in this thing.” He wasn’t sure how this sounded to her—annoyed, grateful, curious. He only meant to make an observation, and a slightly selfish one at that. Secretly, it pleased him. She cared, and a lot.

Though you wouldn’t have known it, from the airs she put on: she smirked at him, and pulled back into the aisle, going to join the others. “Yeah, I don’t think _I’m_ the one who got me involved.”

He ducked his head at the parting comment. Maybe she did know everything. Maybe _he_ ought to apologize to _Heather_. The unspoken truth was only just hitting him, as he watched Astrid sit next to his ex, watched the girls smile at one another: it had always been about Astrid. He did it to hurt Astrid; he did it to imagine Astrid; he did it because he had wanted to feel loved by a girl who didn’t love many people, and he’d thought any girl would do. Knowing this left him flush with guilt, seeing the past for the first time in good, fair light. No matter what shit he and Heather had put each other through, he’d carry that relationship for the rest of his life, he had it earmarked alongside all his other firsts. That alone, he understood, made her friendship worth salvaging.

Toothless stirred and rubbed his head on Hiccup’s chin, purring. So there was someone, at least, that he hadn’t screwed over. They rattled toward Hampton Bays. 


	18. Wannabe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter I’ve written for this fic, thus far, and a very important one. I hope it makes sense to you all, from a character development perspective. There's a pretty nasty gendered slur in here, FYI. Also: are you not entertained?

That night, out on the cold, windy beach, a legendary cry echoed from the dark-shingled house:  _chug chug chug_ .

“CHUG FASTER, YOU’RE THE WORST AT FLIP CUP I’VE EVER SEEN,” Snot roared at Hiccup, his teammate—girls versus boys. Astrid’s laughter almost disrupted her chug, but she pulled it out, anyway, quickly arranging the empty cup on the counter edge and flicking it with her pointer finger. She and Hiccup were closing the relay race for their respective teams, and he was still struggling through his beer. She was going to _cream_ him.

Ruff stood with an arm around Heather’s shoulder as they waited for Astrid to win them the game, and belched. “Christ, skinny weirdo’s truly awful at this.” Toothless sat on the kitchen island between them, playing with an empty cup.

“I know he’s a sloppy drunk,” Astrid remarked, and grinned at Hiccup; he turned the same shade of red as his solo cup and spluttered; Astrid put a good hit to her cup and it flipped, landing neatly upside down.

She hadn’t thought it possible for them to get any louder, but everyone erupted with the win, the boys screaming in agony at defeat, the girls cheering, Hiccup ceasing to drink and coughing up a lung. Toothless spooked and shot off into a different part of the house. “The girls take it,” cried Fishlegs, who’d designated himself as the referee in lieu of drinking. “Now they’ve won Flip Cup, Pong, and Pennies. Which, even if we were doing two out of three…”

Ruff stepped forward, throwing her arms open. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF ROME—but mostly ladies, because we’re _better_ —WE ARE YOUR DRINKING TOURNAMENT CHAMPIONS!” She bowed, and Astrid and Heather did the same, and the girls exchanged a round of high-fives.

“I can’t believe this,” Snot grunted. He was staring quite intensely at Ruff; she only smirked in reply.

“So what do we win?” asked Heather, hopping to sit up on the counter. And a nice counter it was—the whole house was nice, actually. It had a beachfront, and a chef’s kitchen, and six bedrooms, almost too big for the seven of them. Astrid suspected Ruff had put more money into renting it than she let on.

“Well.” Fishlegs consulted what appeared to be a scorecard, making Astrid giggled despite a good effort at composure—she’d had quite a bit to drink already tonight. “The rules state that the losers must perform a lip-synced dance routine.”

Ruff shrieked happily. Hiccup let out a sob. Tuff actually looked kind of excited. “Who made up _that_ rule?” demanded Snot, searching the group with a glare.

Fish sniffed. “It’s my rule, Snot, as referee. The winners choose the song. Performed tomorrow night.”   

Laughing, Ruff patted Fish on the arm, and said, “Ah, I _love_ ya, Fish.” But he seemed to freeze over at the touch, staring at the spot where her hand had been. “ALL RIGHT, LADIES,” Ruff now yelled for whatever reason, “HUDDLE UP.”

So the three of them went into the chilly porch room and did just that; occasionally peeking back into the kitchen, she could see Hiccup pressing his face against the counter while being berated by Tuff and Snot for his incompetency. She glanced at Heather, who was currently outlining a very good plan for their winner’s request. She didn’t think the two of them had gotten to talk yet. When the group got in, it was straight to the grocery store, and then things had devolved into drinking. Maybe it would happen later tonight, when they’d both sobered up a bit. But not too late—if it were too late, and they were alone, a little drunk, talking about their feelings… Astrid’s stomach twisted nervously. But she had nothing to worry about. It was just the delicate whopper of a feeling she had for Hiccup, churning with fear, wanting to be validated.

The girls broke from their huddle and went snickering back to the kitchen.

“We have selected the tune of your doom,” Heather announced grandly. “Your doom tune.” Ruff and Astrid started up a drumroll against the counter. “Wannabe by the Spice Girls!”

Snot cried out, as though someone had just insulted not only his honor but the collective honor of his extended family, and slammed a fist into his palm. “THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME.” A thought occurred to him. “Huh, wow, I’ve led a charmed life.”

Tuff said, clapping, “Hey, I love that song!”

“It’s not even _current_ ,” Hiccup pointed out, but Ruff just shrugged.

“Tomorrow night, 9 PM. We expect it to be fully choreographed.”

“ME,” Tuff leapt in the air, “ME, I’m the choreographer!”

It was late, and after a day of travel and exploration and various excitements, the movie Fish put in didn’t keep anyone’s attention. When Hiccup announced he was going to bed (Tuff was already snoring on the sofa), Ruff, Astrid, and Heather agreed that they too were ready to turn in. Snot and Fish had become engrossed in _Cloverfield_ and sat together like they might hug out of fear at any moment. The rest of them, minus the sleeping Tuff, went upstairs.

Tuff and Fish had drawn the short straw and were the only people sharing a room; everyone else had a bedroom to themselves. Astrid let Ruff shower first, then went in herself. When she came out, wrapped in a towel and hugging her clothes to her chest, she saw Hiccup in the hall, standing by Heather’s room. He smiled at her. He was in an NYU shirt and pajama pants, and barefoot, so the unfamiliar shape of his prosthetic peeked from beneath the plaid hem. It occurred to her that for all the time they spent together, she hadn’t seen his prosthetic since they’d changed together in the locker room back in October. He put such effort into hiding it. Giving her a stupid thumbs up, he knocked on Heather’s door, and as she crept into her room, Astrid heard Heather’s voice saying, “Oh, hey.”

Falling asleep, she thought of that dorky gesture, the thumbs up. Somehow this little bit of weirdness was enough to reassure her that nothing would happen between Hiccup and Heather tonight. They were over, even if he wasn’t over it. She had the brief thought that she could slip into his room and be waiting with comfort and reward, but dozed off before she’d decided.

* * *

Wannabe is a great song.

The three loser boys spent three hours (most of their day, since no one woke up until noon) working on their routine, while Fish and the girls went into town and bought random beach clothing on clearance, planning to “dress up for the theatre.” Astrid wore a huge green caftan over her other clothes, and fanned people with her skirts while they made dinner. The actual performance later that night featured a lot of spinning and hand motions and various levels of enthusiasm: Tuff, completely enthused; Hiccup, medium enthused; and Snot, refusing to do certain moves in outright rebellion, though Astrid thought she spied him getting a little into it by the final verse.

They applauded vigorously at the end, with cries of _bravo_ and _encore_ , and the three boys took a boy, and Tuff took another bow, because, he explained, “This happened because of my genius.”

When the show was done they did a round of shots and played Cards Against Humanity for an hour until they’d exhausted themselves laughing. Toothless sat in Astrid’s lap, purring wonderfully. Heather made several cutting observations about Hiccup’s card choices, to the amusement of all, but particularly Astrid, who could breath a little easier to see them on friendly, platonic terms. The next order of business was to go for a late night walk on the beach—“cold but exhilarating,” Hiccup decided on everyone’s behalf. Fish declined, he insisted on cleaning up the kitchen, and Astrid insisted on helping. But he told her to go along with the others. For a moment, she watched him stand over the sink, until she got the feeling he didn’t want to talk and followed her friends outside, jogging to catch up.

A sort of natural thing happened that often does when three boys and three girls go out together: they fanned into couples. First Tuff offered to give Heather a piggyback ride up the beach, and she accepted happily. Then Snot and Ruff disappeared under a dock some ways down from the house—Astrid _knew_ she had sensed tension there, though she hoped for Snot’s sake that this wasn’t part of the grand Revenge on Eret scheme. So she and Hiccup were left to walk together, and in silence, because the wind blew so hard it swallowed up any words. They walked for fifteen minutes down the beach, until there were no more darkened beach houses, only icy water to their left and dunes to their right. The thicker dune sand challenged his leg and she helped him climb one, and they settled on the other side, where they could still see the moon and the water but were shielded from the deafening rigor of the wind. Astrid sat back, looking up. She was swaddled in her red coat but the cold crept through the insulation, numbing her extremities.

They sat quietly for a bit, two city kids admiring how well you could see the stars out here, compared to home. Then she said, “So how’d it go with Heather?”

“Well, she hasn’t threatened my life recently, so.”

“That’s an improvement.”

“Right?” They laughed; she picked up a reed and started to pick it apart, let it molt into wooly bits all over her jacket and the stupid caftan.

“Nice outfit tonight,” he joked, and she stuck out her tongue.

“Nice dancing.”

“Yeah, I thought it was pretty good.”

Then, quiet again. The air ripened with things she could say. 

“Heather and I are friends now, I think,” he announced, though he didn’t sound so sure. “Do you want to know what I told her?”

Astrid wasn’t certain she did, but the way he asked implored her to agree. “Yeah, all right.” She sensed he had something to tell her. If the strong moonlight hadn’t shown him biting his lip, she might’ve been nervous. But no, the look he gave her, so preciously invested, was too charming to discomfort her.

“I said…” Brows furrowed beneath his mussed fringe, Hiccup scowled out at the ocean. The dune brought them high enough that they could see out over the bay, to a shore dotted with blips of light from car headlights and streetlamps and the occasional glowing window, night owls like themselves. “I said that I was wrong to be with her, because… she wasn’t the person I wanted.” What an odd sensation, the cold air on her hot face. “And she apologized for rushing me into the physical stuff, and we both accepted each other’s apologies, and we decided we were going to try to be friends.”

“That’s amazing,” said Astrid in a high voice. “I’m really proud of you, of you both.”

“From the beginning—that _whole_ time!” He explained his astonishment to the dunes, as if they too should start realizing. “I was pretending to like her more than I really did, because I wanted to be liked by the person _I_ liked. But that person was never Heather.”

It was her turn to stare out at the sea, but only because she couldn’t look at him—she could feel he was watching her, an affectionate gaze, one that would’ve made her giggle or something equally idiotic, for lack of a dignified response, if she’d forced herself to acknowledge it. He leaned toward her, cautious, and spoke loaded words in a loaded tone.  

“I really like you, Astrid.”

She kept her eyes trained on a car speeding around the bay. “Are you sober?”

“Yeah. I’m sober.”

Her whole body could have turned to dust and floated into the night, lost to the Atlantic. Perhaps in her next life she would be a hurricane. She twisted in her seat to face him, properly, because he deserved it. She was right about the look he gave her. Puppy-like. Here was her next question, delivered with the smoothness of advanced consideration, because one of them had to do that—consider: “Are you ready?”

He was scowling again, right away. “What does that _mean_ , am I ready? What’s ready?”

“I don’t know,” was all she could think to say, at first. What did she mean? She had been waiting weeks, waiting for him to be ready, but what did ready look like? What did it sound like? Could she stick a meat thermometer in him or feel the texture of his skin to know when he was done? What was she afraid of, a little undercooked Hiccup?

He took one of her hands in his—they were both freezing, and the wind seemed to pick up when they touched. “If you don’t know, and I don’t know, can it really be that important?” She met his eye, and found his face close to hers. If she were going to give herself to this boy (and she was, she couldn’t see it happening any other way) she would need to know he took the responsibility seriously. That he could handle her with care. She had been handled badly before. Hiccup was different—and _how_ different, different from anyone she’d ever met—but she needed to check, needed him to know that she trusted him with this part of her.

“Promise me you won’t forget about me tomorrow,” she said, hearing her words shake. He laughed, he thought she was kidding, and she punched him in the arm. “I’m fucking _serious_. Tell me I’m not your rebound.” Seriousness returned to Hiccup instantly, he held her by the elbows.

“You’re not. Not a rebound.”

“Because Heather’s _here_ , she’s—”

“Astrid, I can’t rebound from someone who was a rebound.” He smiled and she had to nudge her chin to get her mouth to close. “That’s not how rebounds work.”

Without another complaint to make, without a justified fear, without any resistance from the turned-to-putty Hiccup, she mumbled, “Here goes nothing,” and in a single move took his face in her hands to kiss him. The world opened up there before her, as they struggled to hold each other around their bulky coats, and a gust of wind stung her face with sand. She tried to sense if this kiss was different from the one on Dr. Larama’s couch, but it was hard to tell, when she felt everything so acutely compared to then—this was not something they’d slipped into, this was no drunken passionate act. The firmness of his hand pulling her to him and the authoritative motion of their mouths; this had all the markers of deliberateness. Or she thought so. Astrid broke the kiss, worried. “You’re feeling okay, right? Not like, viciously angry?”

“I feel happy,” he breathed, and pressed his mouth back against hers. The heat of his lips and tongue pricked the empty freeze eating at her. She was going to have him tonight, Astrid realized. In that little creaky bed. Never had a tongue felt so good in her mouth and soon she would have it inside of her, and it would be fucking incredible and she’d come.

Moved to groan at this thought, she said against him, “I hate kissing you.”

He pulled away from her, laughing. “Now, Astrid, didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s wrong to lie?”

“No. Shut up.” And she tried to kiss him again, but he held her by the shoulders, making her whine.

“What if I stopped kissing you?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“What would you do so I’ll keep kissing you?”

She said, flatly, “I’ll take you back to the house and fuck your brains out.”

He let go of her and clamored to his feet, voice strained. “Yep, yep, let’s do that.”

They held hands as they walked back. She wished she could make him run. It was three o’clock in the morning. He was lovely in the monochromatic moonlight, eyes shining, watching her with a smile through his eyelashes. The house grew larger, she lengthened her strides, dragging him along behind her.

At first Astrid thought she’d imagined the sound coming from the front drive as they approached. The wind blew loud, after all, distorting every other noise. But then she saw Hiccup scratching his head, too. It was a clanging—and then the cry of a human voice. They shared a nervous look, and dropped each other’s hands before jogging around to the front yard to investigate.

There, standing over the mailbox with a baseball bat, stumbling drunk and shouting at the top of his lungs, was Eret.

Astrid’s heart sunk. The night had been going so well. She heard Hiccup groan behind her.

Eret raised his massive arms above their rented mailbox and slammed the wooden bat down into it; the metal container was almost crushed, and its post stuck out of the ground at an odd angle. “ _Bitch_!” he screamed, and he hit it again. Fuck—Astrid glanced over her shoulder at the house, afraid their friends would begin to wake up, and Ruff would see or hear something.

“Eret, stop that!”

He noticed them, finally. Such an expression came over his face when he saw Astrid—pain, fury, a sliver of fear—she didn’t know what to make of it.

“You,” he spat. “You’re here.” Oddly, he sounded delighted to see her, in a kind of manic, asshole way. Like he’d hoped she would be at the house, and here she was.

“Eret, go back to Delta Psi,” she called firmly, approaching him like you’d approach a wild animal. He took a wrong step and had to steady himself on the mailbox he’d just destroyed. Yeah, he was drunk, he was wasted. She glanced back at Hiccup, who stood braced, fists at his sides.

“Fuck no. This is my house.”

“I’m sorry Ruff got the house from you, Eret, but you have to stop—”

“Ruff?” he repeated, furious, “Who gives a _fuck_ about Ruff?”

Astrid took a step back. She felt she had missed something, but perhaps he was just being hyperbolic. “I know she hurt you, Eret, but—”

“She didn’t _hurt me_.” Astrid checked Hiccup, to see if he was following Eret’s tirade any better, but he hadn’t moved, he stayed glowering at Eret. “I don’t give a bloody shit about Ruff. _You_ hurt me.”

“Oh—what?” She’d done this to Eret? _Her_?

 “You’re stupid _and_ a bitch, then?” he grunted.

“ _Hey_ ,” Hiccup warned, speaking for the first time. He took a step out from behind Astrid, but Eret didn’t even look at him.

“All that bloody fucking flirting—you wanted me! I even dated your best fucking friend so you’d see that you wanted me!”

She knew how Hiccup must have felt, to see suddenly what had happened, in its true form. The looks he gave her and the blatant flirting and the fact he’d only dated Ruff after she said he wouldn’t do it. Blushing, she wrapped her arms around her torso, giving herself a quick hug. “Sorry,” she told him, as gentle as she could manage, hoping that the extension of sympathy might calm him. “I’m not interested in you that way, Eret.”

“Oh, don’t I fucking know it.” He pointed his bat at Hiccup. “You’re interested in _that_ , because you’ve got a fucking backwards cunt or something.” She bit back a surge of anger—she didn’t take kindly to that shit, from drunk guys, from sober ones. Eret moved toward Astrid, and she did feel an inkling of fear, but with her martial arts training she’d taken out guys twice his size—the physical wasn’t her concern, she had more trouble with the guilt twisting her stomach into a ball.

Hiccup, however, must not have made that distinction, because he stepped between the two of them and, in the blink of an eye, before she understood what was happening, he _clocked Eret in the fucking jaw_.

Astrid shrieked in surprise as Hiccup stumbled back, cradling his hand and muttering pained expletives. “What the _fuck_?” was all she had time to yell at him.

“He was going to hurt you!” Hiccup answered, voice full of anger, just as Eret roared and started to charge him.

Astrid leapt in his path and, in two moves, had the massive guy writhing on the hard frozen ground. She glared up at Hiccup, panting. “I have a _black belt_ —you’ve clearly never thrown a punch in your life.”

“I was just trying to—I was looking out for you, Astrid!”

“ _Fuck_ , Hic.”

“Why are you being so—”

“Because you _hit him first_ , Hiccup,” she cried, incredulous, and then glanced down at Eret, who’d ceased trying to stand up. “You never hit first! You don’t want to be a guy who hits first!”

Hiccup shook his head, nearly as angry as Eret had been. “You’re mad that I _defended_ you?”

“You weren’t defending me, you hit him because you were mad!”

“That’s bullshit!”

“You’re more of a trainwreck than I thought.” She leaned down and tugged at Eret’s huge forearm, trying to get him to sit up. She might have hit him harder than she needed to, but she’d _actually_ been defending someone.

“Shit,” she heard Hiccup mutter, and he stared at Eret on the ground like he might come after him again, this time for inciting him to do violence in the first place and upset Astrid. It was like he was saying, _how dare he fuck this up for me!_ When all Astrid wanted was a flicker of remorse. This Hiccup she was seeing right now—this was the same Hiccup who had reared his ugly head to say he hated Heather and to claim Astrid reviled his disability. He was an adolescent nightmare, a spoiled brat. He was not ready.

“Come help me get him in the house,” she demanded, and he reluctantly assisted her in heaving Eret across the yard and through the front door.

Not unconscious as much as drunk and disoriented, Eret came around after a few minutes of Astrid wiping his face with a damp cloth and nudging him to wake up. He stayed silent, but took the proffered painkiller and water, and was soon fast asleep on the couch with a bag of frozen peas against his jaw, which Astrid carefully removed. By the time she’d done all this, the clock on the mantle chimed four o’clock. Miraculously, Eret hadn’t woken any of their friends with his outburst.

Then she got some iodine and gauze from Fish’s first aid kit and went to Hiccup, who’d been stewing at the kitchen island and hiding his hand, but she knew what a punch did. She shook the iodine in his face and said, “Come on, let me fix you up,” and he took his hand from beneath the counter. Four split knuckles. She’d guessed as much. They didn’t make eye contact as she disinfected and dressed the wound, then retrieve Eret’s frozen peas to ice it. When she’d finished she climbed on to a barstool and sighed. He stared at her, jaw tight, anticipating her words. But she had to say it anyway; they were past the point where nonverbal conversation did any good. “I know what I meant now, when I asked if you were ready.”

He shook his head, turning from her. “I don’t want to do this, Astrid, it’s getting ridiculous—with the back and forth.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do.” She had his ear again—he hadn’t expected this. Which made her realize how much she _had_ been telling him what to do, but whatever. She was done with that now. “I want you to tell me you’re not having an emotional crisis. I’m a person with a temper, Hiccup,” she said, wringing her hands. Right as it felt, this conversation came difficult. He didn’t look at her, toyed with the fresh bandage. “I know what that looks like. I can see that this… what you’re going through, isn’t like that. I don’t if it’s your parents, or if it’s me—” _Don’t fucking cry_. But it was too late. At least she did it quietly.

“I don’t know what it is,” said a small voice that couldn’t have been Hiccup’s, no, never, but she saw his mouth moving.

“It’s so scary, seeing you like that, it doesn’t—”

“It’s not me. I don’t know who it is. It’s not me, though.”

Astrid swallowed hard. The crying made her throat raw. “If you can tell me it’s not going to be a problem, if you can honestly say you’re okay, I’ll…”

When he glanced up at her, he’d started to cry too, and it was a horrible thing, it answered her question, it broke her heart. He had the concession written in his face, the tremble of his lip, the roundness of his damp red eyes: _I am not ready._ She got up and hugged him tightly, burying her face in the thinness of his torso. She felt the wetness of tears on her ear as he pressed his own face into her hair, and choked out, “I’m sorry.” And she was sorry too. 

“It’s okay,” she said, not letting go, speaking into his shoulder. “I can wait. I’ll wait.”


	19. Are You Ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had several requests for explanation regarding the last chapter. If I didn’t respond to your question, it’s because I had enough that it would have taken me the same time to answer all of them as it did to write this chapter. Now, I won’t say you’re going to get your answer here, but you will get it in the next chapter, chapter 20. Everything should be cleared up then; if you still have questions after c20, I will gladly answer them. And that chapter should be up very soon.

She waited.

On a sunny day in late August, a cool breeze cut the heat at opportune moments for the army of NYU students and parents hauling comforters and bean bags and boxes of books into the dorm that Astrid would call home for her sophomore year of college.

Astrid was task-less for the big move-in, having arrived a few weeks earlier to start training for diving. Coach had decided this year would be her year to do more meets, more invitationals, everything. “The big stuff,” he called it. “You’re going to the championship.” She hadn’t quite wrapped her head around his ambition. _Her_ ambition, she supposed. It was funny—ambition had driven her through high school, it had gotten her to this university on a full ride, where she’d made straight As in all but one class her freshman year. But this summer, she’d spent eight hours a day assisting doctors and nurses in a West Hollywood free clinic. She’d met dying people who couldn’t afford the medicine that could at least ease their pain. She had a new ambition, now.

Already settled, she became free labor for her roommates, and for the boys across the hall; she carried things from cars, accompanied Ruff and Tuff to their storage unit, helped Heather rearrange the furniture in their common room. Their new apartment was 11A, but they kept referring to it as 8G, anyway—force of habit. The boys were in 11B; after Tuff came Snot, with his equally burly father chastising him (“Why do you need all this _stuff_?”), and then Fish, whose parents both had thick Jersey accents. For a while Astrid sat on their sofa and chatted with his dad, a dentist, about his medical school experience, keeping her eyes trained on the front door in case the apartment’s fourth inhabitant should arrive. In response to her text, he’d only said he was coming over that afternoon.

The fact is, the first year of college changes people. More than any single, universal year in a life, it forces growth, forces you to bring fragile things into the light, forces you to evaluate what and who makes you tick or brings you joy.

People come back from their first year of college _different_ : she had seen it this summer, in her high school friends. Some of them looked the same and acted different, some of them transformed physically and sounded identical to their old selves, but they all seemed older. And she could see it in her college friends, her new friends, too. Perhaps it had been harder to catch at the gradual pace of freshman year, but when she went away from them for the summer and came back, she was reuniting with different people than she’d met at this very school a year ago.

Ruff had started smirking rather than smiling. Before finals, she’d cut off most of her hair and dyed it pale blue, but somehow her complexion looked darker—maybe it was something in her eyes. She had yet to decide on a major.

Fish lost a little weight over the summer, his acne was fading and he had a better haircut. He’d stopped wearing oversized t-shirts and starting wearing polos, and khakis, and loafers. He was quoting Neruda nowadays. When Astrid helped him hang a poster in his room, he told her he was going to have his first public poetry reading this semester, but as she always did with Fish she felt he’d left out something important.

Snot had grown a creepy little beard. The first thing Ruff said when she saw it was, “That’s disgusting,” and from the look on his face Astrid guessed he would’ve shaved right in the kitchen sink if he could. She didn’t know many times they—Ruff and Snot—had slept together, but it was at least twice. It did not strike her that Ruff had taken this in stride.

Heather spent the break doing repertoire theatre in Nashville and was happier than anyone had ever seen her. Disconcertingly happy, even: she went around humming. After a tumultuous first year, she had recovered, and she confessed to an envious Astrid that she’d had a lot—a _lot_ —of sex that summer.

Tuff seemed to have matured the least out of the seven of them, but then again, in his own weird, special way, Tuff had always been the most mature. He’d never embroiled himself in conflict, he didn’t mope when he had a problem. Through the grapevine, Astrid heard he was one of the most beloved, promising students in the Philosophy department. But he _had_ gotten a pot leaf tattooed on his ass, so he was a little different, even if they all declined to look at it when he offered.

And then there was Hiccup.

At half-past four—the afternoon was nearly over, he should’ve been here by now—she went into the hall with a sigh.

Ruff stood in the door to 11A and Fish in the doorway to 11B as they discussed their plans for later.

“I’m only saying that a group game of D&D would be really fun and nostalgic,” he said, shrugging.

“I don’t know, Fish.” Astrid’s head snapped to eye her roommate—she hadn’t dismissed D&D outright? She’d called Fish by his name, too, not “the fluffy one.” Yeah, Ruff was being… friendly. Like a friend. Weird. Her roommate brushed a few strands of bluish hair out of her eyes.

“I’ll play,” Astrid offered.

“Well, I know _you_ will, you’re a total geek,” said Fish.

She grinned. It was true that she’d read a lot of comics, this summer—she had a sort of library lending process going on with Hiccup, where he’d send her a few, and she’d read them, and send them back in exchange for more. It was how they’d kept in touch while busy with their jobs on opposite sides of the country. After a while she’d started going to the comic store in LA, trying new serials, and passing her recommendations on to him—for what he hadn’t already read, anyway.

So maybe that was the thing that had changed about Astrid: she was a geek. Or, she’d always been a geek, only now she was cultivating the untended part of herself. And it felt nice. It had patched a hole left by Ben and the struggle of last year.

“I’ll play if Tuff plays,” Ruff agreed, and Fish smiled at her. He must’ve already secured Tuff’s participation. Something drew her eye over Astrid’s shoulder, down the hall. “Oh,” she said, gaze flicking briefly to Astrid. “Look who’s late for the party.”

Astrid knew it was him from the grin Ruff gave her—the same smirk she’d done at every mention of Hiccup in Astrid’s presence for over a year, now, like she could just turn to her roommate and say his name and expect the light to come into Astrid’s eyes. She didn’t know if there was a light (hard to tell how much one’s own facial expression really gave away), but she did know that today, after three months where her only glimpse of him had been through the occasional, pixelated video call, and her only physical reminder was a series of jokey handwritten notes stuck to the inside of envelopes, it was impossible to turn around and see him standing there looking at her with a huge grin on his face and not _glow_.

His father got off the elevator behind him, lugging a huge cardboard box under one arm like a basketball. She had never seen Stoick Haddock in person before: he cut an impressive figure, taking up the width of the hallway with his broad shoulders, and none of the parents and students hanging out of doorways to watch him go by even noticed Hiccup in the presence of such a giant. No one, that is, except Astrid.

He had grown. Not much, maybe two inches, but enough that he stood half-a-head taller than her, and for the first time she noticed the difference. He had a light outdoorsy tan, like you’d expect to get from three months at a summer camp, and a new smattering of freckles layered over it, like you’d expect Hiccup to get from three months at a summer camp. And, as he and Stoick came down the hall toward them, she better saw his face and realized: he was handsomer. He was _handsomer_ —was that even possible? Or had he always been handsome and she had only just noticed? No. She’d noticed before. But his jaw looked trimmer, a little baby fat melted away, and he had a new, shorter haircut. Handsomer! She couldn’t believe it.

As he approached them Hiccup raised his arms cheerfully like he intended to greet the group, but Astrid threw herself at him in a tight hug, earning a little _oof_ from her friend.

“Get a room,” groaned Ruff—Hiccup’s father tossed the blue-haired girl a bizarre look, as Hiccup started to laugh, his torso shaking in Astrid’s arms.

“Did someone tell you I died, or something?”

“No,” she said, glancing up to accidentally meet Stoick’s very intense gaze—she let go of Hiccup. “That got away from me.” Astrid glared around at their friends. “We’re not going to talk about it.”

Hiccup beamed at her, regardless. “Hey, Az.” She had to look at the floor.

“Hey, Hiccup,” Fish greeted him brightly, drawing attention from Astrid’s gross display of affection, to her intense relief. She sidled off to let Hiccup and his dad into the boys’ apartment. Ruff and Astrid crowded in the doorway while Fish showed Hiccup around in the kitchen. Abandoned in the living room, Stoick turned to the girls, a little awkward, like any fifty-plus-year-old parent when surrounded by college students. He had streaks of grey in his impressive red beard.

“I’m Hiccup’s father, Stoick Haddock, it’s good to meet you,” he said. Ruff’s jaw dropped at his accent.

“You’re from England?”

Stoick frowned. “Scotland, actually.”

“Big difference,” Astrid whispered to her friend, and then she gave Stoick a polite smile. “I’m Astrid, this is Ruff.”

“Astrid,” Stoick repeated. He stared at her like some switch had flipped on in his head. “Aye, I’ve heard a bit about you.”

“And I you,” she replied smoothly, unthinking. Both Stoick and Ruff stirred, surprised at the challenge in her voice, and Astrid was a little surprised herself—but she squashed it and gave him a hard stare. She knew Hiccup had forgiven his parents enough, but that didn’t mean she had to be as accommodating. (Not that she could precisely _avoid_ accommodating Dr. Larama, but those advising meetings took a lot of effort. She knew a side of her advisor she didn’t respect.)

Hiccup and Fish returned from the kitchen, and Hiccup motioned his father to the door. “Come on, Dad, let’s bring up the rest of my things.”

A couple of hours later, the seven of them sat around the kitchen table in 11A, immersed in their biggest Dungeons & Dragons game to date. Fish spent most of the adventure anxiously negotiating the din of six very vocal participants (even Heather proved to be an assertive player), and they didn’t really get much done on their campaign, but Astrid laughed so hard her stomach hurt. In Berk, Snot’s dragon kept inadvertently setting his pants on fire; in Manhattan, they destroyed three pizzas and two twelve-packs of beer. She had missed her friends. She sat opposite Hiccup and caught his eye again and again, and every time he smiled her way she felt like she was in on some incredible private joke, even when nothing had been said.

When they’d gotten back from the beach last March, there were only six weeks properly left in the semester—in the entirety of their freshman year. She’d hardly wrapped her head around it; she drowned in papers and exams and internship applications and she couldn’t worry about Eret (who had left in the morning before anyone was awake, never to be heard from again), and she couldn’t beat herself up about Hiccup (who went off on his own end-of-term spiral). They existed in a truce, a contractual non-contract, a weird paradoxical state of feeling together while being apart. After months of her over-involvement, she had to trust that he would figure out what was wrong on his own. And now, looking at him so happy to be back with their gang, she thought he might have done it. They hadn’t had a chance to talk, yet—she was itching to pull him aside somewhere and get to know all his secrets. She had waited.

After the game petered into general socialization, the group decided they would go out for frozen yogurt. Astrid tried to grab his attention and quietly suggest that they hang back and catch up in private, but he declared his approval of the idea before she got the chance.

So they went out into the summer evening, a big chattering gaggle, Ruff monopolizing Astrid’s conversation while they walked in order to avoid Snot, and thus cutting her off from Hiccup. She bit her lip and bore it, content to watch him strolling a few feet ahead of her, where at least she could see his ass. Better than nothing.

In the froyo place, once they’d all gotten settled—Astrid again delegated far from Hiccup by the accident of their lovely but cockblocking friends—Tuff stood on a chair, to the alarmed glance of the two young women working behind the counter. “Friends!” he cried.

“Please don’t make a speech, Tuff,” said Fish sadly.

“It’s a short one!”

Ruff glared up at him. “Last time you made a speech you got us banned from the Korean place.”

“So, their wings were terrible!” He raised a dripping spoon of yogurt. “I want to make a toast—to sophomore year. Best one yet.”

“Setting the expectation low, there,” Astrid muttered, glaring at her yogurt. When she raised her eyes, Hiccup was peering at her past their respective roommates. Then, he looked up at Tuff.

“I think you’re right, Tuff. Best one yet.”

Tuff got down from the chair and the conversation steered elsewhere as Heather and Snot got into an argument about peanut butter flavored yogurt, and they were all prompted to begin naming the worst yogurt flavors they could imagine— “Sweat.” “Microchip.” “Regret.”

Suddenly exhausted, Astrid zoned out, half her dessert melting in its plastic cup. Then the scrape of metal on the linoleum floor startled her: Hiccup had dragged his chair to sit with her.

“Hey,” she said, attempting to temper the ascent of her voice into a flustered register. She felt sort of ridiculous—the quickening of her pulse, the sideways glance, the numbness of her tongue in her throat—like a schoolgirl with a crush. Hiccup seemed so easygoing, in contrast, looking pleased to see his friend—and maybe nothing more? _It’s been too long_. She had to boot the panicked thought from her head. He still liked her. He had to, otherwise—

“We didn’t get to talk earlier,” he said, poking his kind, freckled face toward her, “How are you? How was the last part of the internship, do you miss your patients?”

“It was good, I do—do you miss your campers?”

“So much,” he sighed. “They all wrote me cards before they went home. They’re…” Not having a word for it, or maybe not wanting to express how moved he’d been, Hiccup shrugged, but she got the idea.

Astrid straightened in her seat, unable to quell the half-smile on her lips, the one that seemed to go hand-in-hand with Hiccup’s presence. “Well, I’m trained in first aid now, so I can take care of the gaping hole they left in your chest.”

“I didn’t know first aid could do that,” he managed, through oncoming laughter.

“It can when I’m doing it.”

“Oh, so it’s not really the first aid, it’s _you_.”

“I see you’re catching on.”

They descended to giggles and their mirth trailed off in unison, which left the pair grinning at each other. There it was again—the pulse quickening, the numb tongue. His lips twitched. Astrid thought she spied a tiny flake of chocolate on the bottom one, and she had to shove her hand between her knees to keep from wiping it off, and bite her tongue to crush the other thought: if she kissed him, that’d take care of it, too.

How had she even survived the second half of the spring semester? Had it been this hard? In retrospect she didn’t think so, but perhaps she’d sanitized the memories, and there had been a pile of responsibilities to distract her from considerations of… eating chocolate off Hiccup. Okay.

She had a question for him, but she did not get to ask it: Ruff sprung to her feet. “All right, first night of the year, classes don’t start for two days, let’s go back to the apartment and get _shitfaced_.”

“Sure,” said Fish, popping up. Everyone froze and gaped at him; none of them had ever known Fish to drink. “What?” he demanded. “I had a very exciting summer! I grew a lot! I do cool stuff now.”

Tuff stood and shook Fish’s hand. “Awesome. _Awesome_.”

Snot, spying Ruff start to go, popped up and followed her closely, and Astrid saw her friend scowling. Heather got up and went in tandem with Fish and Tuff, which left Hiccup and Astrid bringing up the rear as the seven of them left the shop. Neither of them said anything at first, as the group headed up Broadway. It was a nice night, cooler than day but warm enough that she was more than comfortable in her t-shirt and shorts. She sort of dreaded going home—it’d be fun, probably, but outside was so _pleasant_ , and… and the taste of privacy with Hiccup was not enough. Not even close.

They were turning down the cross street that would take them back to the apartment building, when Hiccup stopped short with a hand on her arm. He didn’t seem disturbed, necessarily, but there was a hint of urgency in his voice when he asked, “Hey, do you mind if we go somewhere and…”

“No,” she said, wanting to get away, too, “I’m down, let’s do it.”

Hiccup put a hand in the small of her back, and called over his shoulder to their friends: “We’ll catch you guys later!”

“Bye!” she added, not bothering to disguise her delight in ditching.

“Where are they going?” came Tuff’s fading voice behind her.

As Hiccup lead her the way they’d just come, back downtown toward Washington Square Park, she heard Ruff go, astonished, “ _It’s_ _happening_.”

 


	20. Here Goes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I hope you like it.
> 
> Trigger warning for discussion of mental illness. And then a lot of fluff.

Hiccup thought he was doing pretty well, for someone so nervous he fully expected his heart to fall out of his chest and splatter across Waverly Place.

“And,” Astrid was saying, a spring in her step, “If I do something for my resume in next semester, and get another good internship over the summer, I’m in good shape to apply to the program at the Mayo Clinic—Harvard will like that a lot.” When she talked about the future, she fanned away from reality, speaking faster and staring at the space in front of her like she could see it all there, coming together. Astrid had so many plans. Hiccup had very few: get through sophomore year, choose a track in the Polytechnic school, find time to travel. Finish their cosplays for this year’s comic con. Her drive was admirable.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”

Astrid shot him a sideways look, a flash of apprehension. “I mean…” They crossed the street to Washington Square, and entered the park, shuffling their feet. “Dr. Larama—your mom,” she corrected swiftly, and he gave her a grin. “She told me that a lot of the prehealth kids that go through the Bio department… they say they want to be doctors, and then they go and do hands-on work over the summer and come back and—and it turns out they didn’t know what it would take, really. So they become teachers or cell biologists, or whatever.” The park was a little busy, well-lit, early on a Friday night. The fountain spewed pleasant columns of water upward, the famous arch glowed white. “I guess for me it had the opposite effect.”

“At least you know.”

“Yeah. I do. I do know,” she said, satisfied.

They paused in front of the fountain. He had planned what he was going to say. It was just right—funnily indirect, but to the point, so he could deliver this wallop and not sound like the bearer of bad news, the person who parsed out the worse information slowly, as if you needed to let the words sink in when they were going to be sinking in for the rest of your life. He turned to Astrid; she was watching the glittery plumes climb toward the Manhattan skyline.

He said, stiffly despite his best effort, “Did you know that stress and emotional upheaval can trigger relapses in people who’ve suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder?”

Taken aback by the conversational quick change, she squinted at him. “I… I did not?”

“Well.” He turned back to the fountain, and inhaled deeply. “I did, because that’s what my therapist told me when I went to see him in April.”

She stared at him—it dawned over her face, and he felt a flicker of relief that he wouldn’t have to say it.

 

“PTSD?” she repeated, faintly. He gave a small nod, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. “You had PTSD,” Astrid said, and he quickly glanced at her, puzzled.

“Wait, you didn’t know?” He thought she hadn’t realized about the _relapse_ , but… Astrid shook her head once, her thin mouth pursed, her brows twisting in worry and guilt and maybe a little terror. “But you asked me all those questions, about Toothless and cosplay being around the time of the accident—”

“Your _therapy_ cat,” she gasped, as it hit her—the force of the realization was quite sweet, he decided, as Astrid pushed her bangs off her forehead and gaped at him. “And drawing, and sewing, that was all…”

“Art therapy? Yeah.” He almost laughed when he said, “What did you _think_ it was?”

“I don’t know, just—like, a temporary…”

“It’s pretty normal for people who lose limbs in horrible tragedies, honestly.”

“Just because it’s normal doesn’t mean it’s not _hard_ , Hic.” Her voice strained for composure. His smile faded.

“I know. Trust me, I know.” A skateboarder passed within a foot of them and they both stirred. Hiccup cleared his throat. “So yeah. We—me and my therapist—we figured out that the last time I saw my parents being civil and hugging and… whatever, it was when I was in the hospital after the accident. And it set off something, subconsciously. And it’s all mood swings and irrational behavior and stuff.” He waved a hand, trying to brush off the gravity of the situation, of telling this girl who he… of telling someone so important about something so raw. Even if she deserved to know. It had hurt her too. “We adjusted my meds, so I’m just on this—like, this _spectacular_ drug.” This startled a nervous giggle out of Astrid. Funniest thing he could manage to say about antidepressants. “I feel… better. Good.”

The rage that settled on him in December of last year had lifted; he could draw breath and not feel winded by anxiety. He’d had dinner with his parents multiple times—all three of them, together, _peacefully_. Their relationship frustrated him, but it was not a fling. They had been dating for over six months. He had to come around or alienate them entirely, and it was better than listening to the fights.

Astrid wrung her hands and watched him. “I’m really glad to hear that.”

“And how—you, how are you feeling?” he asked, because he did not (could not, would not) forget the night she’d come pounding on his door, sobbing, stalked by blame that wasn’t rightfully hers. She did that—took all the accountability on her shoulders. He did it too. And then they looked at each other and had to point out the reality of things.

 

“I feel fine. I feel…” She shrugged and something tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“I’m so sorry for everything,” Hiccup said, feeling earnestly indebted to her, but Astrid frowned back at him.

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s not like you could’ve—I mean, there wasn’t… it’s not your fault.”

“Well, I still feel like I ruined… everything.” He decided not to specify.

Astrid’s eyes flickered back to the fountain. She seemed a little antsy, maybe she was as nervous as him, but the thought only made him more nervous. “I think.” What? What did she think? She sucked her lip as she turned back to him: “When you say that it sounds to me like you’re saying there’s… nothing left that’s not ruined. But that’s not true—is it?” She was so pretty, very pretty, beautiful really, and he couldn’t quite understand how this had happened to _him_ , of all the nine million people in this city— _him_ and Astrid.

“No,” he managed, unable to get air into his lungs.

She took a step toward him, lifting her chin to meet his eye.  Her mouth popped open and he knew what she was going to ask. It wasn’t so much that she loved the question, he thought, as it made her feel safe. He didn’t mind it, he understood the self-protection, but he hoped she’d see at some point that she didn’t need to worry with him. She started to ask, “Are you—” _Ready_?

“Don’t do that.” He kissed her—neck first and barely moving in, all awkward and uncertain, forgetting what he was supposed to do with his hands until he felt the brush of her fingers along his jaw. Embarrassment seized him—what was that, he’d kissed her before, he’d kissed girls, he was no amateur—he broke away from Astrid, bowing his head so she might not see the grimace on his face.

After a beat, she said hoarsely, “That wasn’t a very good kiss, maybe you should try again.” He peeked at her, at the shine of her eyes.

They got it right this time. He put an arm around her waist and pulled her in and kissed her long and hard, her mouth opening under the weight of his own. The fountain sputtered as a little barefoot boy ran through it, a tour group coming through the park laughed wildly, a taxi horn blared for five seconds straight on the south square, students kicking a ball chased after it into the quad, and a couple of old men sitting on a bench whistled at Hiccup and Astrid, making out in front of five hundred strangers.

Needing air, they parted. She had the widest, most wonderful smile on her face, he wished he had a camera, or a pencil. “Do you remember,” he panted, “when you—when we were on the beach and you kissed me and you said, ‘Here goes nothing’?” She was shaking her head, she remembered but she didn’t understand. “It wasn’t nothing, was it? It’s not nothing. Do you want to go out—”

“Okay, now you’re the one who needs to stop asking stupid questions.” Astrid wrapped her mouth back around his and drew him to her; their hips brushed and it lit a fire all over him. Tonight— _tonight_. “We should really head back,” she murmured, an inch from his cheek.

In answer, he wound his hand around hers and she led him uptown to the dorm. While they went, he kissed her knuckles every time his eyes fell to at the long white legs extending from her shorts, and at the tight denim of the shorts themselves, thinking about how he didn’t really care for shorts, preferred their contents… anyway, he was kissing her knuckles a lot.

“Hey, I missed you this summer,” she told him, as they walked—almost ran—home.

“I missed you, too.” Earlier he’d felt like his heart might fall out of his chest but now he expected it would expand to twice its normal size and pop open his ribcage, or something.

Astrid exhaled, “Finally,” as they got to the building and she dropped his hand to shove open the door like they were in some sort of emergency. Which they were, he supposed. They’d been waiting nearly a _year_ for this. In the elevator, she moved like she was going to kiss him again, but a couple of girls got in after them. The girls stood chatting with their backs to Hiccup and Astrid, oblivious—smirking, she slid a hand under his t-shirt, along his skin, toward his fly. He had to shield his mouth with the crook of his arm to keep from making any sound. _Twisted_ , he thought, and hoped it would be like this with her every time. Exhilarating, a little dangerous, making his blood pound. The girls got off on the fifth floor and the two of them spent the rest of the ride shoving their tongues down one another’s throats.

In the eleventh floor corridor, they paused between the two apartments, listening.

“I think they’re in there,” she whispered, ear to 11A. It did sound silent behind his own front door—he started trying to remember where the condoms were in all his packed stuff, definitely concealed so his dad didn’t stumble upon them during the move-in (though he’d probably be _proud_ )—but he couldn’t quite recall, and what if they didn’t have one? His first response was to start salivating at the prospect of going down on her. Was he a dirtbag? Maybe he was a little bit of a dirtbag. Astrid grunted in frustration, still not sure where they could go to be alone. Then there was a shout from 11A—Tuff’s voice, maybe. It didn’t matter.

Astrid turned to him, grinning freshly, “Your place.” He had already started fumbling for the key in his back pocket and now worked at fitting it into the lock, but his hands shook, and when she peeked over his shoulder to watch he felt the brush of her breasts against his back and dropped the keychain entirely.

“Shit.”

“Pull it together, Haddock.”

She bent down to retrieve the key for him and paused on her way back up—glancing up at him, and then letting her eyes slide down his torso, until she was staring right at his crotch. Smirking. Fuck.

The elevator opened down the hall, making Hiccup flinch. When he looked back to Astrid, she’d straightened and was letting them into 11B, but that smirk—he was going to be up nights with that smirk. He followed her in, shut and locked the door behind them. The common space was dark, messy with boxes, but they didn’t even pause there, just went straight down the hall to his room. Which was worse, honestly—a plastic bin full of all his school papers and drawings, garbage bags stuffed with linens, a suitcase and duffel containing the entirety of his wardrobe. When Astrid flipped on the light, a black dot mewed and darted away—Toothless, escaping beneath the bed.

“I’ll put him outside,” Hiccup said, sheepish.

“There aren’t even sheets on your bed,” Astrid pointed out in dismay.

Closing and locking the door a second time, he sighed. “I got in late, I didn’t have time to unpack. Sorry I didn’t anticipate…” She looked back at him with a quirked brow, and he gestured between them. “Well. _This_.”

“Funny, I’ve spent pretty much the last six months anticipating _this_.”

She licked her lips. Her meaning was felt. Oh, boy, was it _felt_. He went red. Astrid had thought about… Him. Like that. Privately. Not that he hadn’t thought about Astrid privately, because—yeah. But it seemed different for her to do the same, mainly because she was about ten and a half million times hotter than him, or so he believed. He knew he wasn’t bad-looking, of course, and that the bit of weight gain this summer had done him a favor, but Astrid? “Well, I mean, anticipation—it works… You know what, I’m gonna make the bed!” Hiccup clapped his hands together. “Also, no idea where the condoms are. In that bag or the duffel, maybe.”

She did a little salute and went to look. “On it.”

A few minutes later he’d assembled his bed well enough, and had an eyeful of Astrid’s ass as she searched for and eventually discovered a crushed box of condoms at the bottom of his suitcase.

“Aha!” She dumped the box on his bedside table just as Hiccup stood at her back, so that when she turned around he kissed her before she could speak. Her arms slunk around his waist and he pressed her gently against the side of the bed, readiness making his fingers itch, he traced the curve of her spin. Smiling into his mouth, Astrid kicked off her sandals, and grabbed the front of his jeans, kneading. Which made it impossible for him to keep kissing her, he pressed his face into her neck and groaned. As if he hadn’t been hard before—

Something brushed his leg and Hiccup remembered. “Hold on,” he choked, extracting himself from the arms of a visibly disappoint Astrid and flopping to the floor. Toothless’s eyes glinted at him from beneath the bed. “Hi, bud. Time to go into the living room.” The cat crept away from him, further into the shadows, and he laid back on the floor to reach for him. “Come on, bud, we want to be alone.” Finally he got an arm around his squirming pet and he sat up—only to find himself a foot from Astrid’s thighs, she’d slipped off her shorts while he was fumbling around, her underwear was _black_ and _lacy_ , he made a noise like someone had stepped on his face—and, startled, Astrid swung around so fast her knee made contact with his chin, knocking him back, and as she lost her balance she did in fact step right on his face.

“MOTHERFUCKER,” was the word that came out of him as searing pain shot through his skull. _Motherfucker motherfucker motherfucker!_ Toothless escaped his arms, but he barely noticed, lying there on the floor and feeling wetness around his nose, which he shielded from further assault with cupped hands.  

Astrid knelt beside him. “Hiccup, _Hiccup_ , sorry, sorry—”

“You stepped on my face,” he tried to say, but it came out, _Oo smepped ‘n m’ fae_. Holy shit. Something was messed up.

“What?”

“Oo smpped ‘n m’ _fae_ ,” he said again, desperately.

“Hiccup, I think—” She started trying to pry his hands from his face, but he resisted with a sob. “I think you may have broken your nose.”

“ _Oo_ boke m’ nose!”

“I know, yes, it was me, I’m really sorry, but you need to sit up and lean forward or you’re going to get blood in your throat. Let me see it.”

Pouting, he did as he was told, and then dropped his hands to reveal the offending face, which _throbbed_. Astrid gasped.

“ _No goo_?”

“Nope, not good,” she replied stiffly. “Okay, just let me…” Carefully, she ran her fingers down either side of his nose and he flinched away at the searing pain. “Yeah, it’s broken. Like, really broken.”

“ _Geat_.” Sarcasm didn’t work when he couldn’t pronounce the letter R. Glancing down, he noticed for the first time that his hands—and shirt, _and_ jeans—were covered in blood.  Yeah, just _geat_.

Astrid shut her eyes for a second, apparently steeling herself, then brought her hands back to him. “I’m going to set the break. On three, okay?” He braced for it. “One… two—” A crunch and he shrieked as another bolt of pain stabbed through his skull. And then—relief, actually. He took a deep, clearer breath, and even though the blood left him a little congested, he could talk properly.

“That was _not_ on three.”

“You were going to flinch,” she said simply. “You need to take an Advil and get some ice on that, come on.”

In the bathroom he gingerly held a cold press to his nose while Astrid ran the tap and wiped the blood from his mouth, chin, hands—really, everywhere—with damp paper towels. She knew a lot about this stuff, he could tell, and she moved with reassuring authority and concern. She would make a good doctor one day. Providing she wore pants, since being a foot from Astrid in a t-shirt and underwear was actually more painful than the broken nose. 

“So,” he joked, disguising some glumness, “Do you think the universe doesn’t want us to have sex, or do we subconsciously not really want to have sex, so we keep doing this to ourselves?”

Astrid snorted and tossed another bloody paper towel in the trash. “If the universe doesn’t want us to have sex it better send a meteor to crush me, ASAP.” She looked up, waited a beat. Nothing happened. “Thanks, big guy!”

The laughter bumped Hiccup’s tender nose against the hard cold press, but he couldn’t help it. “Did you know you’re pretty funny?”

“Hey. You’re pretty funny too.” She pecked him on the cheek. “By the way, the second half of your theory is utter stupidity, too. I know because this bruised and bloodied thing is kind of doing it for me.”

He removed the ice and caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. He had started to bruise and his nose was definitely swollen, but it wasn’t as bad as he thought. Not the picture of health, exactly, but not awful. He hoped. “Seriously?”

“You look like shit.” From the queer expression on her face and the simple fact of her tone, he suspected that she was serious—this _was_ “doing it” for her.

“You like shit?”

Astrid scoffed. “You’re mostly clean now,” she told him, and started to wash her hands.

“Thanks.”

“You need to keep it elevated to reduce the swelling.”

“Elevated?” he echoed unhappily. He’d been hoping to spend the next few hours… the opposite of elevated.

She shut off the water and grinned. “Open your horizontal mind, babe.”


	21. Third Time's the Charm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I made you wait 20 chapters for it, so here’s 3600 words of smut (fluffy smut). I did not skimp. If you don’t like smut, just skip this chapter.
> 
> Strong language… not safe for work… etc. I mean, what do you expect?

“Doesn’t this like, violate your Hippocratic oath or something?”

Astrid frowned at Hiccup’s back, as he set Toothless down outside. She sat perched on the edge of his bed while she waited, impressed by the toned lines of her own legs dangling off the side. “What?”

“See you later, bud,” Hiccup told the cat—funny, he always talked to Toothless like the animal could understand every word—and closed and locked the door. They were alone. “I mean, now that I’m your patient…”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “I’m not a doctor yet, you’re thinking of the AMA’s ethical code, not the Hippocratic, and emergency first aid on a civilian doesn’t qualify you as my patient.” Shrugging, he scuffed his foot. “What, did you want it to be naughty or something?”

“ _No_ ,” he shot back, embarrassed.

Sensing she could play with him a little, she added, “Because it already kind of is.” Intrigued, Hiccup slunk toward her. “We snuck off to be alone, our friends have _no_ idea what’s going on—”

“They probably know what’s going on.”

“Yeah, okay, so they know exactly what’s going on.” They laughed and she reached for him. “Come here, please.”

Hiccup inhaled—a big, visible breath—and then came to stand between her knees. The skin around his nose was beginning to turn purple, and she could see a couple of spots where she’d missed wiping off the blood, but she didn’t mind. It made her stomach churn pleasantly. “You nervous?” she asked, running a hand through his hair. He had on a tiny pout.

“You do know that every sexual experience I’ve ever had has been regrettable, right?”

She quirked an eyebrow, mostly to mess with him. “ _Every_ sexual experience?” An ironic question but Hiccup immediately fumbled to apologize.

“I mean—okay—there were good _aspects_ to certain… ones, I just—”

“Relax, I was kidding.”

He ducked his head for a second, and then looked back up at her. “Would it be awful if I said the worst part about that time was how fast it ended?”

“Yeah. It would,” she laughed, looping her arms around his neck. “But I get what you’re saying.” His fingers trailed absently up her bare thigh. Fuck. She met his eye and saw the corner of his mouth turn up, just barely—not quite smug, but… thoughtful. _Fuck_.

“You know what I realized?” he asked, voice low.

“What’s that?” she whispered back—then she caught herself feeling absorbed in the little secrecy, and flushed.

“The sex advice you gave me. There’s no universal sex advice.”

“Oh.”

“What I realized is, maybe when someone gives you sex advice—they’re telling you what _they_ like.” His fingers had come to her upper thigh. “It’s probably not going to be useful unless you’re with them.” He stroked—lightly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease her—the damp patch forming in the lace of her underwear. “What do you think?”

“Maybe you’re right.” She struggled to speak normally, to keep up this conversational foreplay.

“So… your advice was… What’s the first thing?”

“Find the— _ahh_ —” He’d stuck his fingers down her panties and was toying with her clit.

“Nevermind, I remember,” he said gleefully, as she let out a whimper. This coy act he was doing—horrible, great. “And the second one was—actually, should I even be doing that with my nose all swollen?”

“You fucking should,” she said, more forceful than intended, and Hiccup drew away his hand in surprise. He dropped the act, the wide eyes were genuine, floored by her authority. He gaped but she held fast. “As your doctor I’m clearing you to eat me out.”

“You want me to…” His eyes fell to her crotch, frightened, covetous.

“Fuck me with your tongue.” He hesitated and—fearing she had been too demanding, even though it was in the interest of turning them both on—she added, gentler, “Do you want to?”

He shook his head, not a no, more like he was trying to compose himself, and kissed her. “I do, I want to fuck you with my tongue.” A knot in her chest dissolved. She pulled herself up, so she was straight-backed, serious.

“Then get on your knees.”

She could tell that did something for him. Hiccup gave a tiny nod, and lowered himself to the floor. She slid as far as she could to the edge of the bed without falling off. Working together, they got her underwear down and over her knees and tossed it away; she figured she would not spend much time wearing underwear in this room, in the future. For a moment he just sat there and stared at what he had to work with, mesmerized. He’d fingered her but he had never gotten to _see_ , and under the harsh white light of the overhead fluorescent, he could see a lot. They’d keep the lights on, she liked seeing, she wanted to know everything.

He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, and began to kiss up her thigh. She let out a contented sigh. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you should do this to me.”

Hiccup laughed, now hovering close enough that she could feel the warm air brush the wetness of her cunt. “That’s not true.”

“It _is_ true. I said to myself, ‘He talks too much, I’ll show him where to put that mouth.’” And anyway, if she hadn’t thought this _strictly_ upon meeting Hiccup, she had thought it more than enough since then to warrant this statement.

“Yeah, you sure showed me, Az,” he muttered, and leaned forward to take her clit in his mouth—she had expected an experimental lick, maybe, not this suckling—the noise that tore out of her felt too ragged to be a scream. It must’ve been something (the shot of pleasure had deafened her temporarily, she couldn’t actually hear it) because Hiccup released her and sat back, sobbing into her thigh.

“Is your nose okay?” she managed, trying to wrap her head around being normal and concerned.

He looked up at her, and grimaced: disappointment, resignation, disgust. “I came! I came _again_ …”

“Oh my god, that’s _it_?” As if she cared that he’d now come in his pants twice with her. As if that wasn’t kind of hot. “Keep going,” she said, nudging him with her foot, “You’ll be hard again soon, it’s my turn.”

“It’s your turn,” he agreed, squaring himself, and he went for it—slower this time, laving his tongue from front to back with a painter’s precision. She let out a long sigh. He did it again several times— _mean_ , he got closer to her opening with each swipe. He promised her a tongue-fuck, hadn’t he? Drawing a deep breath, she let her head fall back and her hands fist into the comforter, trying to enjoy the slow build, because she liked slow build, she really did, it was just that it had been over a year since she’d been genuinely fucked and it had been six months that she’d waited for Hiccup and she was ready. But if she’d waited that long she could stand to be teased a bit, couldn’t she? Couldn’t she? She whimpered as he brushed against her clit. Maybe that was good enough—maybe he sensed she was impatient, because he slipped his tongue in her and gave a few enthusiastic licks before going back to suckle at her clit, and then in her again. It was the speed of him more than anything that did it for her, it was the way he cupped her ass and dragged her toward him to get deeper. Hands in his hair, she leaned forward, moaning, panting, the heat of the summer night sticking to her skin and the another, better one flooding her, from her abdomen over the rest of her body. He was _good_ at this, and she didn’t even fucking care how he got to be that way because he was hers now, only hers, and she screamed.

He extracted himself and scooted away, gasping for air and grimacing, a hand to his nose. She’d probably shoved it against her pelvis without realizing, but she couldn’t find the words to apologize, could only flop back on his bed and groan. The decadent looseness; she stretched happily, and sighed, “Holy shit.”

Hiccup climbed up and rested his chin on the edge of the bed, grinning. “Good, right?”

“Oh, look who’s sexually confident _now_.”

“It was all an act, I’m a god.”

“Right. Did I hurt your nose?”

“Eh, it’s all right.” He ran two fingers down her forearm, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “You were… very into it. I can’t complain.”

“Good.” She gave him a smile, and they stared at each other for a moment. She spied his eyes going to the rise and fall of her chest. “We should take our clothes off.” It had barely occurred to her that, between the two of them, only her lower half was naked. He still had on his bloodstained t-shirt, even. But the idea didn’t seem to compel Hiccup, who moved away from the bed.

“I dunno, it’s kind of a hassle, I can just—”

“Oh my god,” she groaned, flinging herself to sit up, “You’ve got nothing to be self-conscious about, you’re hot. Come on.”

“Self-conscious?” he repeated incredulously, sitting on the floor and looking down at himself in a very self-conscious way.

“I’ll take off my shirt if you take off yours.”

“Deal.”

Astrid wiggled forward on the bed, and drew her shirt up and over her head with an exhibitionist’s deliberateness.

She started to unhook her bra, but Hiccup sprung to his feet. “No, let me do it.”

Biting back a giggle, she turned around and felt his fingers in the center of her back, and then the bra went slack and she tossed it away. When she turned around, he was leaning against the bed like he couldn’t quite support himself any other way, looking down at her with an open mouth. Not drinking her in, no, there was too much reverence in the expression on his face—desire, worship. She blushed, a full, deep blush, and punched him gently in the stomach. “Hey, I’m totally naked and you’re still dressed, so get to it.” 

“Now, let’s not pretend that naked you and naked me are even from the same planet,” Hiccup tried to joke. But his voice shook, and he hesitated gripping the bottom of his shirt. She put her hands over his and helped him to guide the garment off. And there he was—she’d been right about the slight tan, he had lines where the sleeves and collar of his shirt would’ve been. His chest itself was paler. She ran her palm down it: small patch of reddish brown hair in the center and trailing beneath his navel, scars. Not big ones, just a group of them cluttered on the lower left side of his torso. Not surgical, she could tell.

Astrid felt a finger under her chin, and he lifted it to kiss her. Okay: they didn’t have to talk about the scars today. Or ever, if he didn’t want to, she supposed.

As they kissed—his mouth was salty from her—she went to work with the fly on his jeans, and then broke away from him, frustrated. She could see the bulge but not get to it and felt like a petulant child denied dessert. “Take them off!”

“I’m not taking them off.”

“ _What_?”

“Relax, I’m just going to pull them down,” he started to kiss her neck, “it’s too much work to get them off around my prosthetic.”

“But…”

“Don’t I have to stand?”

“Yeah,” she said weakly, not quite sure how to articulate what she sensed was wrong with this. “What if the jeans trip you and you fall?” Still sounding like a child, Christ, she had to gather herself.

“It’ll be fine,” he declared, and the overextended enthusiasm in his voice gave it away.

“You don’t want me to see your prosthetic!”

Hiccup only hummed against her collarbone—which felt incredible, but nevermind—she pushed him away, glaring, forcing a response. “Well, okay, _no_ ,” he admitted, “It’s not exactly sexy, all right?”

Astrid scowled. “It won’t be sexy when you trip on your pants and fall and break your face, either.”

“You already broke my face!”

“That’s not—” Okay, touché, whatever. She waved an arm and he dodged it. “Fine, but I _do_ think it’s sexy, because I think you’re sexy and it’s a part of you so just… Just take off your pants.”

Hiccup had stopped playing defense, stopped everything. He just stood there, staring at her, mouth open like he was ready to speak but couldn’t find what it was he wanted to say, so he only smiled. “Astrid.” She pouted fiercely and folded her arms over her bare chest. “I think that might be the nicest—best thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Take off your pants?”

“You know what I mean.” She was blushing, again, and he kissed her, again. So she could be sweet sometimes; she did it without realizing, because she was first and foremost honest, and so when she felt something sweet it tended to force its way out of her. As she was— _groan_ —sweet on him. They got his pants halfway down and he climbed on the bed to tug the rest over the prosthesis. Not a moment later she reached over and grasped his cock, not because it wasn’t hard or because it needed some persuading—it didn’t, it really fucking didn’t—just because she had to, _had to_ touch him. It strangled a noise out of Hiccup, and another as she pumped once, twice. “Careful,” he hissed.

“I missed real ones,” she sighed, and letting go of him, gestured to the condoms on the bedside table. He got the message and scrambled for one, then let her roll it on, because she was rather intent on getting her hands on his dick just then. At least before she got it inside of her—priorities.

“Okay,” he said, back on his feet. She sat on the edge of the bed and he stood between her legs; they had to arrange themselves, like they were about to do a scene in the theatre. “Like this?”

“Yeah, and you can like—press me into the bed, you can lean over a little, just not too much. For your nose.”

“Yep.” Biting his lip, he glanced over her, nudged her legs open more and hooked his hands behind her knees. To stop the fussing she pressed her mouth into his, and at once she felt his shoulders relax. Good. She kept kissing him, wrapped her arms around his neck to coax him nearer, so he could position himself. Then there were hands on her ass, and he got close and left her lips to look down and—they gasped together, though he was an inch in, tops; something about scratching a year-old itch. Fucking finally. Finally fucking. She kept kissing him, and when he slid in all the way he made a noise into her mouth. She could’ve laughed, she felt full of him and full of excitement. “Hard part now,” he choked, bucking into her aimlessly, but the suggestion drew a sound from Astrid.

“Doing good,” she managed. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

“I’m just going to… to move and then, when you need—”

“Yeah, good.”

He did move, hard and measured, saving up a second of momentum for each thrust, with small grunts. It wasn’t orgasm pacing, but it was a good start, good for the sensation of being around him. Her arms slid from around his neck and she spread her hands over the comforter behind her, propping herself up and throwing her chest forward, where he began to lavish his unfocused mouth on her neck and collar and breasts as he moved. She liked this made-up, medically-wise position, she decided—he sort of had to thrust down to push her against the mattress, but he was tall enough, and she clung to him with her legs in assistance. And something did spark between them, her legs, the kind of glimmer that they should be chasing.

“Faster,” she told him, intent on coming this way. Hiccup looked a little flustered by the direction, but took it, speeding up and watching her for approval—except that wasn’t it, no, not quite, and she winced. “Can you push down more?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stepped into and over her, almost on top, and tried a thrust that set her on edge.

“Yes, that—” Thrilled to have hit on something, he went for it with reckless abandon, and the burn went from a simmer to a fast cook, like he had reached in there and kneaded her insides just the right way—lucky bastard, probably, but she would take it. The little bed, university issue, squeaky enough under normal circumstances, sounded like it might break. His jaw—she saw his jaw flexing and it turned her on, even more, even though she hadn’t thought it possible to be this turned on. But he was, as always, full of surprises. Her moans tightened into gasps with every subsequent thrust, the noises shorter and shorter until she’d run out of air to make them. It was good and hot and _whole_ ; when she did this alone she always felt like it was _half_ , like she had spent her summer giving herself _half_ fucks at the thought of this very moment. And now she had the whole thing, and it reached every nerve in her body.

She found another cry in the height of it, as the warmth seemed to explode inside her, or maybe that was Hiccup’s jerk as he swore and kept fucking—Astrid didn’t know if he’d had his or if he was about to, and didn’t really matter to her as long as he kept on, which he did. It wound down. “Fuck,” climbed out of her, she collapsed back against the mattress, catching her breath.

As she settled down, feeling like liquid, he slowed, face twisted into a grimace. He hadn’t gone.

“Need help?” she mumbled, sitting forward.

“Tried really hard not to, now I…” Well, if Hiccup Come-In-His-Pants Haddock hadn’t psyched himself out. Giggling, she leaned into his neck and laid a few kisses there, then sucked on the delicate skin—he whimpered, caught off-guard, drove another couple hard thrusts into her, then went stiff and immediately relaxed, groaning. Astrid laughed, pulled back to kiss his mouth. They kissed for a long time, slowly, not moving much. Enjoying the lazy feeling.

Eventually he pulled out and got rid of the condom as Astrid tugged back the sheets and half-crawled under his covers, leaving her legs free on the insufficiently air-conditioned night. “I know you just made the bed, but you’re going to have to wash these sheets again,” she observed, indicating the damp circle she’d left on his comforter.

“Okay,” he said, turning down the bed and seating himself beside her, with a quick pause to remove his prosthetic. She didn’t watch; it felt more private than seeing him naked, for some reason, and then he’d pulled the sheets over himself. “But why should I do that when they’re just going to get messed up again tomorrow?”

“Oh,” she said, laughing, “Oh, wow, look at that confidence.” He tossed her quite the grin, propping up his head with a pillow. “How’s your nose?”

“Hardly feel it.”

“Must be the endorphins.”

“Maybe I just have better things to feel than the excruciating pain of a broken nose.” He kissed her cheek and she snorted, and pointed to the dresser, in arm’s reach.

“Hand me a t-shirt, my boobs are all out there.”

“So?” She punched his thigh and he did as he was told, handing her a shirt she pulled over her head. Purple with the NYU logo. For a second, they sat, together in bed, eyeing each other. “Well,” she said, “We can either get dressed and go across the hall to our friends… or we can stay here and go to sleep.”

A smile played across Hiccup’s lips. “I don’t think they’re missing us much, do you?”

“I’m willing to risk it, even if they are.”

He asked, slowly, starting to extend an arm to her, “Do you want to… cuddle?”

She glared at him for a long moment, and then sheepishly curled by his side. “Yeah, I want to cuddle. Sue me, Haddock.”

“I’ll sue you for being cute.” Astrid made a retching noise and rolled away from him.

“I take it back, I’m not cuddling with you.”

He groaned. “I know, it was terrible. I’ll never say it again. Come back.” She harrumphed, but snugged against him a second time. His arm fell easily around her shoulders. “Az?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you undo your braid?”

Astrid sat up and squinted at him. Her braid… she ran a hand along its length absentmindedly. Somehow, she’d riveted Hiccup. So she undid the band and tugged her fingers through her hair to loosen it; she’d been wearing it this way since she started swimming, as a little girl. The chlorine made it feel thick and coarse, she didn’t like it against her skin. It was a little softer now, though—she hadn’t been back in the pool long enough since summer to do any damage. Hiccup reached over and she helped him touch it for a moment, and lay back against him.

“Thanks,” he muttered. With her ear to his chest she could feel the vibration of his vocal chords.

“Anytime.”

“Mmm.” He sounded sleepy. She was sleepy, too. Before the drowsiness caught her and didn’t let go, she climbed over him and flipped off the light. Then she snuck back into the snug bed, awash with contentedness, and passed out at Hiccup’s side.


	22. Give A Damn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple stuff! Get excited!

“I’m going to stick my head outside and see if anyone is there.”

“This seems unnecessary.”

“I can’t hear anything.” Hiccup removed his ear from the door. “Okay, yeah, gonna stick my head outside,” he said again, not quite believing himself.

“Oh my god, you’re being _ridiculous_ ,” she groaned, and went for the door handle. Hiccup yelped and tried to pry her hands off it, and they tussled. “This is so stupid, Hiccup—they know we slept together, I’m not spending my morning trapped in here!”

“We should lie,” he said earnestly, now throwing himself against the door so she couldn’t escape. The bridge of his nose was swollen and purple in splotches. “We should lie and keep it a secret for a little while, no one needs to know—”

“They already know!”

“You can’t be sure about that.”

“They do. Trust me.”

“I trust you, I’m just being cautious.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I mean—they talk, I’ve heard the way you and Ruff and Heather talk about sex—”

“Do you really think I’m going to go blabbing all over town about like…” She squinted at Hiccup, who had started sinking toward the floor pathetically. “I mean, I’m pretty sure Heather already knows you eat pussy because—because I’m not an idiot.” Hiccup didn’t meet her eye. “And Ruff will probably just respect you. For the first time ever. So what, is this about dick size?”

“Oh, please!” He glared at her, insulted. She almost apologized for assuming he had normal male insecurities but the potentially very fun argument didn’t seem worth it. She could tease him another day.

“So, what then?” she asked.

Hiccup made a low whine and didn’t move, pouting at her.

 _God_.

She knew what he was doing, of course—not that _he_ even knew he was doing it—but she’d had the same thought not an hour ago when she’d woken beside him and wanted to lie there forever, watching him stir, under the light touch of his sheets with the scent of his soap in the pillow. Nothing fancy, that smell, maybe Ivory or Irish Spring or one of those basic brands you’d buy in bulk at the drug store, but when she caught a whiff of it nowadays she paused and smiled. And as she lay there thinking about the goofiness of this sentiment, head propped on her elbow, she worried what their friends would say. She worried about the teasing and the innuendos. They were proud people. She worried the scrutiny would harden over the soft spot in her chest for Hiccup.

And then she’d looked at her phone. There was a text from Ruff that just said, _HAAAAAAAAAAAA_

They couldn’t hide anything. Hiding it would only make things worse—more embarrassing, more revealing when they inevitably admitted to the sex and the… feelings stuff. That was what she was going with, right now. _Feelings stuff._

“Come on, Hic,” she said gently.

He bit his lip. He needed another nudge.

“Okay,” she sighed, “You know I’m going to be in here every night this week, right? Or you’re going to be at mine. We’re just getting started,” she added, running a hand down his lean torso, “And we live with them, they’re _going_ to know.”

That did the trick. Hiccup, defeated, ran a hand through his hair. “So, fine, what are we going to tell them, exactly?”

Astrid let her eyes flutter closed. She’d been afraid of this—she had _wanted_ to just walk out and let everyone make their own assumptions, because it seemed too early for the two of them to be deciding what they were to one another. “I mean, I don’t know if I want to label us after one night,” she said honestly.

“One night?” he echoed, his face darkening. “It’s not one night, Az.”

“I mean—I know that, okay, I get what you’re saying.” She sighed and glanced at the strip of condoms still lying on his bedside table. He’d hid them from his dad or something—shit, she was going to be dating her advisor’s kid!

“So what, you _don’t_ want…” Her head snapped to him, hearing how fast his annoyance and injury had flared up. “I asked you out, and you said that was a stupid question—but I didn’t—this isn’t a hook-up, right?”

“No,” she replied calmly. “It’s the opposite of a hook-up.” She had to have sounded sincere, because she _was_ sincere, and Hiccup’s eyes fell to the floor embarrassed that he had doubted for a second. She folded her arms across herself and went on, “I just… don’t want to start this three months in, I want it to feel new—even though we already know each other really well, and…”

A smile had crept on to Hiccup’s lips. “ _You_ want to take it slow?”

She raised her hands. “I know. It’s weird. But not the sex stuff, just the feelings stuff, I’m afraid that…”

“Afraid?” he repeated, like fear was the antithesis of what she ought to feel with him, like there was so little to be afraid of he didn’t understand why this word had entered her vocabulary. She stepped into him and slunk her arms around his waist.

“I already feel—a lot more than I know how to handle.”

He pushed back her bangs, eyes on her cheek. Still smiling. “Yeah. I get that.”

“I just think we should wrap our heads around what we’ve got right now.”

“I can do that,” he decided, and kissed her, closed-mouth. She went slack against him, swollen with that romantic comedy feeling, not quite sure an ice pack would do the trick. Imagine that, a _closed-mouth_ kiss doing this to her, making her want to die if only because it seemed a fitting last memory. Anyway, she definitely didn’t want her final exchange to be the one she had with Ruff and Heather when she returned to her apartment this morning. Kissing Hiccup was better. She briefly considered dragging him back to bed, but she was hungry (for food), and they collectively smelled like the inside of a dirty sock—sweat and other unmentionable excretions.

“So,” Hiccup said, breaking the kiss (she tried not to grumble), “We’ll tell them we’re… seeing each other?”

“Seeing each other. Yeah.” She had a good view of his nose, now, and it wasn’t pretty. “Let’s go get breakfast. And another Advil, all right?”

He winced, raising a gentle hand to the injury. “Yeah. That.”

Leaving an arm around her waist, he turned and opened the door.

Astrid sighed. Hiccup groaned, “You’re kidding.”

All five of their roommates were clustered in the corridor just outside of his room. From the looks of it, they’d been there a while. Tuff, Heather and Fish camped out on the carpet looking sleepy, Snot leaned against the wall with an expression of vague annoyance, and Ruff stood right in front of Hiccup and Astrid, grinning.

Ruff went, “ _HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.”_

Astrid’s stomach plunged into the depths of embarrassment and insecurity, and Hiccup’s mouth sort of… flapped, open and closing as he looked between Astrid and Ruff and the rest of their friends in dismay. She poked his arm and it fell away from her waist. They had been just on the other side of the door…

“Breakfast sounds like a good idea,” chimed Tuff. _Okay_. So they’d heard everything.

Ruff locked on to Hiccup’s nose. “I had a feeling Astrid was into the rough stuff.”

“Okay, this—” Astrid gestured to the little eavesdropper’s convention. “—is creepy, guys, sorry to say it.” Ruff winked at her. 

Fish got to his feet, peering at Hiccup with concern. “What _happened_ to you?”

“Uh.” Hiccup threw Astrid a nervous glance and Ruff’s face lit up, she looked like she could bubble over.

“Oh my god, it _was_ a sex thing?”

“I accidentally stepped on Hiccup’s face,” Astrid shot back. She hated this conversation. She hated all their friends. She was going to burn this dorm to the ground. Especially if Ruff said another fucking smug word, which she—

“Don’t you mean _sat_ on—”

“ALL RIGHT,” shouted Heather, popping to her feet. “I’M OUT. It was weird that I was here in the first place.” She disappeared down the hall—Tuff was giggling.

“Weird?” echoed Ruff, and then she remembered and chortled. “Right, because she boned him first! Man, that _is_ weird.”

“It is a little weird,” Fish agreed, with an apologetic glance at Hiccup and Astrid.

“YOU GUYS ARE LITERALLY SITTING OUTSIDE OUR DOOR LISTENING TO US,” roared Astrid, making everyone jump. Well, _good_. Let her fill their shriveled hearts with _terror_.

“ _Our_ door?” repeated Tuff.

“I thought you were just ‘seeing each other,’ that’s fucking domestic,” Ruff cackled. Her short blue hair was the epitome of evil.

Wanting this to be over, Astrid turned to a red-faced Hiccup and put a hand on his arm. “At least we don’t have to tell them what happened.”

Ruff gasped. “No, no I think you do, _Hofferson_.”

“Shut up, he’s already worried I’m gonna tell you how big his dick is,” Astrid shot back, unthinking. Hiccup threw his hands up.

“All right, this is officially uncomfortable so I’m going to go feed my cat. Bye!” He darted past Ruff, toward the kitchen. Snot grunted and went back to his room and Fish and Tuff climbed up from the floor.

“Are we going to breakfast?” Tuff asked eagerly.

Astrid’s fists curled into balls. Last night she’d broken a nose unintentionally, this morning she was feeling like she could do a few on purpose. “No. None of you are invited to breakfast. Breakfast is just for me and the guy I banged last night. _Capiche_?”

Tuff whispered to Fish, “I don’t speak French.”

Ruff’s smug grin had barely faded. “All right, sister.”

Astrid glared and stomped down the hall, into the kitchen, where Hiccup was spooning a can of cat food into a bowl and fighting off the ravenous, impatient Toothless.

“Just give me a second, bud!”

She let him finish what he was doing and then came up behind him, squeezing his ass. “I’m going to shower and then we can grab something to eat.”

“Got it,” he said, pecking her nose.

Not forgetting Ruff’s random invasiveness or Heather’s discomfort, she buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m going to take out a lot of angry energy on you later and you’re going to like it.” Hiccup’s torso shook with laughter.

“Yeah, I will.”

* * *

That Wednesday night, four days after their first sexual encounter and not 2 hours since their last, Hiccup and Astrid sat on the couch in the boys’ apartment and shared Chinese takeout. They had taken to spending their time at Hiccup’s, since the boys offered far fewer opinions about their relationship than the girls (though Astrid knew Ruff would sense this pattern and start showing up in 11B and the jig would be up—but not for another few days). Hiccup’s nose healed, slowly but resolutely, his bruises now going yellow around the edges. Today the swelling was down enough that she felt comfortable laying him back on the mattress and fucking him, rather than being fucked herself. They went two rounds after she got out of her late afternoon class, and now they ate dinner happily and hungrily, having burned many calories. Astrid had extended her confiscation of his clothes into boxer shorts. This went very well with sesame chicken and cheap wine and old movies. _Gone with the Wind._

She had her legs stretched out over the couch, feet in Hiccup’s lap. He wore his pajamas, too, even though it was only seven or eight. Too early in the semester for them to be worrying about school and work. Toothless had curled atop the taller couch cushions at their backs.

He was devouring an eggroll. “Why couldn’t you have told me I’m not a gentleman when _we_ met?”

“So you could’ve told me I’m not a lady?”

“I mean, you’re _not_.” She gasped and kicked him in the thigh while he laughed. “What, you want to be a lady?”

“No, but you’re still supposed to treat me like a princess.”

“That seems ambitious. Duchess, _maybe_.”

“Shut up, I like this part.” She turned to him seriously, sitting forward. “ _No, I don’t think I will kiss you, though you need kissing badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how_.” In reply, he leaned toward her, and their lips met. She sighed, content. In the background, Rhett and Scarlett went on about their miserable, rich, racist lives. Hiccup ran his tongue along her bottom lip. _And by someone who knows how_. Pulling him her way, she dug her nails into the skin of his forearm, he slid his hand up her thigh—

“Guys, this is the common area.”

A wet, sucking sound when they parted. Fish was standing by the front door, looking disappointed. He did the deadbolt behind him with a sigh.

“Sorry, Fish,” Hiccup said, but he left his hand draped over Astrid’s knee.

“Yeah, sorry, Fish,” she added. Notably, Fish was just about the only one of Hiccup’s roommates to whom she’d apologize when they made him uncomfortable. Snot and Ruff could take it, but Fish, Fish was delicate. And they cared about him.

“It’s okay,” he replied glumly, pausing by the door. Astrid saw his eyes flickering over them, thoughtful and perhaps a little envious. “I’m glad you guys are so happy.”

She glanced sideways at Hiccup, hoping he wouldn’t notice, except he was doing the same to her. They each wanted to know if the other felt this to be true—Astrid wanted to know if Hiccup was as happy as she, and vice versa. It made her lightheaded to think he’d had the same instinct to check. That was worth kissing him for, that was worth dragging him back to the bedroom for. He had yet to show any interest in getting sucked off, maybe tonight was the night.

“Thanks, Fish,” Hiccup offered up, maybe since Astrid had gotten temporarily sideline staring at his crotch and forgot to respond properly to their friend. They had so much making up to do. Hiccup added, cautiously, “Are you okay?”

Fish looked at them for a long moment, which was enough to stir Astrid’s attention. “It’s just nice to see two people so happy and in love,” said Fish, his voice cracking with emotion. Astrid looked at Hiccup with a hand over her mouth, and judging by the expression on his face neither of them had any clue what was going on.

“Hey, Fish, maybe you should come sit with us,” Hiccup offered, quickly muting the TV, and she retracted her legs to make room for their friend between them. When he sat—really more like plopped—down, Astrid handed him the remaining sesame chicken and he began to shovel it miserably into his mouth.

“We’re not in love, Fish,” she said, a hand on his shoulder, refusing to look at Hiccup. She suspected he knew this, but she was… she was bracing for the possibility that they might _one day_ be in love, and she didn’t really want to know if he was bracing, too. She only hoped he was. She would’ve liked it to be mutual.

“Of course you’re in love,” said Fish, almost thoughtlessly. Hiccup stirred uncomfortably. “You guys have always been in love, it just took you a while to figure it out.” Jesus. He made it sound so _factual_.

“Um,” Hiccup croaked.

Okay. She needed to redirect this conversation. She asked Fish quickly, “What’s the matter? Did something happen? You’ve been sort of…”

Hiccup, eager to leave the awkwardness behind, leapt on this. “You haven’t been yourself,” was his assessment.

Astrid said, plainer, “You’ve been weird.”

Hiccup frowned at her and she raised her shoulders—as if she could do better!

“We’ve only been back at school for a few days,” Fish observed, a little defensive, but the way he was putting back her chicken did nothing to disguise his sadness.

“You were weird last semester, too,” Astrid pointed out, “You were weird at the beach house during spring break, I remember.”

“Oh.” Fish’s chewing slowed, and he swallowed. “That was right after the thing with Sarah.”

 _Sarah_ , Hiccup and Astrid mouthed in tandem, staring at each other around the blonde tuffs of Fish’s hair.

“Who’s Sarah?”

“She’s my best friend from back home.” He eyed them both, a little wary. “We didn’t talk much at the beginning of freshman year, but then…” Fish shifted forward in his seat, turning to look at Astrid. “Then Hiccup started dating Heather and everything got weird, remember?” Astrid saw Hiccup wincing behind Fish.

“Yeah, I remember. What happened with Sarah?”

“Oh, well.” Another uneasy glance between his two friends. “Are you guys really asking about this?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because whenever it came up before it sounded a lot like you were making fun of me.”

Astrid’s eyes found Hiccup’s, again. He had his mouth against his fist and his brow furrowed. _Yeah_ , she wanted to say, _I feel like shit too_.

Hiccup dropped his hand to speak and gave Fish a friendly nudge. “Hey, sorry about that. We didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah, not at all,” Astrid agreed.

“It’s just, we tease each other a lot, in a, you know…” He gestured to Astrid for help.

“A good-natured way?” she suggested.

“Yeah! It’s totally good-natured. You can tell us whatever you want about anything and… and if it’s serious to you it’ll be serious to us,” he finished. Fish peered at Hiccup for a second, then checked on Astrid. They both had on their best innocent-helpful faces.

Fish let out a low sigh, and trained his gaze on the coffee table finally. “I liked her for a really long time and I asked her out and she said she didn’t feel the same. She just liked me as a friend.”

Astrid sat back, chewing her lip. She’d been there—everyone had been there, hadn’t they? It was a terrible sort of feeling. Inconsolable. Hiccup had on the same look of nostalgic sympathy. “I’m really sorry, Fish,” she managed.

“Yeah, me too,” said Hiccup. Toothless, who had been napping up until this point, leapt down from his perch on the back of the couch and climbed into Fish’s lap.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Fish said, stroking the cat’s ears. “I wrote some really good poems about it. You guys can hear them if you come to my reading in a few weeks,” he added, brightening. He seemed weirdly unfazed by everything—twelve-year-old Astrid had cried for a week and destroyed a perfectly good Aaron Carter poster when her best friend rejected her in middle school (her best friend had looked a lot like Aaron Carter).

“We will. We’ll be there.” She reached out to take Hiccup’s hand behind Fish’s heads.

“Thanks.” Fish got to his feet, and turned back to them. “Anyway, I just thought it was nice to see two people who used to be best friends making it as a couple.”

She didn’t quite know what to say: arguing with Fish (they’d only been together a few days!) seemed like it might undermine his weird calm comfort with the rejection he’d experienced, and she didn’t know what Hiccup thought of all this.

Speaking of Hiccup, he got out an awkward, “Yep,” before Fish waved to them and went down the hall to his room.

“Wow,” slipped out of Astrid, once he was gone.

Hiccup started to laugh, and soon Astrid was laughing with him. That whole conversation had been a little too heartbreaking and ridiculous for a more coherent response. “I can’t believe it,” she gasped, trying to pull herself together.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Pretty tough for Fish but, honestly, it seemed like we were having more trouble than him.”

“Yeah. Let’s not talk about it,” he suggested, smile tugging up the ends of his lips.

“Okay.” She automatically mirrored him with a grin, trying to not to wriggle at the look he gave her.

“Except one thing. He got one thing—”

“Super super wrong?”

“So wrong. We’re still—”

“Still best friends.” Astrid squeezed his hand.

“Best friends,” he agreed, and she leaned over to kiss him again, turning the volume back up on the television with her eyes closed. Scarlett was running after Rhett. He told her he didn’t give a damn. Hiccup said into Astrid’s mouth, “You don’t even know how many damns I give.”


	23. First Date

“You look nice.”

“You already said that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, twice.”

“Well. You still look nice, then.”

Hiccup caught her smirking out the corner of his eye, and dug his hands into his pockets. They kept walking up the street, streetlamps lighting the summery night. Not cold, not hot, clear skies—the perfect evening for September. He’d set the pace at a strict meander. On a Friday evening, date night, they passed other couples, similarly dressed and similarly intentioned.

“You know,” said Astrid, skating around a laugh, “When you said you wanted to go on a date, I thought maybe we were actually going to _do_ something.”

“You told me I could plan it,” he fired back.

“And did you plan anything?”

“I planned a surprise.”

“Ugh.” She waved an annoyed but affectionate hand in his direction. Her dress—light blue linen—screamed summer. When the wind blew at them, the fabric clung to the front of her body; and he looked, even though he was pretty familiar with everything, at this point. (Not over it, still— _him_ and Astrid.) He couldn’t manage a jacket in this weather so he’d just rolled up his sleeves. “I’m hungry,” she pointed out. Yeah, so it was nearly seven.

“We’re almost to the restaurant.”

“Oh, a _restaurant_?” she gasped, teasing, and he chortled.

“Not the surprise.”

And it was a good thing, too. Thinking of her reaction to the _actual_ surprise, he started to sweat.

There was no surprise.

Two days ago, Hiccup had asked Astrid on a date—though they’d been “seeing each other” for three weeks now and had spent a dozen evenings together—but this was a _date_ , a fancy dinner type thing. Ruff had given them hell about it. He took charge of the planning because he suspected that Astrid would just want to sit on the couch and feel him up during a movie, and though he didn’t object to this, it seemed far from the grand romantic outing he’d envisioned. And Hiccup had this feeling that their first date needed to be good, memorable, a story they could be telling years from now—

Well, okay, so he knew he was getting ahead of himself. But just in case, by some crazy fated miracle, he was right… He wanted it to be perfect. Just in case. Yeah.

She laughed when he said he had big ideas. He told her she would be amazed.

He’d spent two days worrying about this, two days scrolling through blog posts of date ideas, flipping through books about the city he’d lived in his whole life. She’d seen the Empire State Building and that was too cliché, anyway, she’d think he was proposing marriage or something. And other tourist stuff? She’d lived here for a year, would she really want to do tourist stuff? No. But it couldn’t be dinner and a movie. Roller rinks and laser tag and rock climbing he couldn’t do. Well, maybe laser tag. But if he was going be in a dark room with Astrid, there were more productive options. It was all cliché after cliché after cliché.

And he’d worried and put it off and done his homework and gone to class and worried and studied and researched some plans for next year and worried and gone to class again and suddenly it was the day of the date and suddenly it was the hour of the date and he had _nothing_. Except a restaurant. He had a restaurant.

Which was something!

But yeah. He was mincing his steps on the way to that fucking restaurant.

“This is nice,” she said, when they got to the café—she said it smiling. She had expected it to be nice. So no surprises yet.

“I like this place,” he explained, holding the door for her. “My mom and I come here all the time. They have these raviolis…”

“Your mom likes this place too, huh?”

“Yeah?” He followed Astrid inside; the air conditioning washed over him; he looked at her, and startled by the severe expression on her face, followed her eyes across the café’s small interior—to where his parents sat at a table, examining menus.

So there was a surprise after all.

His insides contorted anxiously, god, _no_. Wrong kind of memorable!

Astrid turned to him, hand shielding her face, like that might prevent them from recognizing her, or their nineteen-year-old son, standing twenty feet away in a relatively well-lit, quiet space. How many restaurants in Manhattan, probably thousands, and they’d just…

“Dat da da, we’re dead,” he muttered.

“Turn around, quickly, let’s go—”

“Can I help you?” said a small voice, the hostess, who peered at them from behind a ledger. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yeah, uh,” said Hiccup, as Astrid started pushing him back toward the door, “I have a reservation for two under Haddock, you can just cancel it.”

The hostess glanced down at her book. “Oh, I thought that was a mistake, two reservations under Haddock…”

“Total mistake,” said Astrid through her teeth.

He was pushing open the door when that familiar brogue boomed across the restaurant, “SON! HICCUP!” A number of couples—the restaurant was packed with them—jumped and eyed the big man with the red beard calling to them. He saw his mother smiling, but also staring at Astrid. Great. Here they were, taking it slow, not wanting to rush into anything, kicked out from their veil of non-labeling by the cruel forces of fate and his and his mother’s shared tastes in ravioli.

“Nice surprise,” Astrid whispered, smiling and waving at his parents, who were gesturing for them to come over.

If embarrassment could kill. He almost put his hand on Astrid’s elbow to guide her toward the table, but flinched and pinned his wrist to his side. “It’s fine, let’s just say hi and go get burgers,” he muttered in her ear as they wove through the other patrons, then realized that speaking low right by her neck was equally if not more incriminating than elbow-touching. He saw a curious look flash across his mother’s face and flushed, but Stoick went on grinning obliviously, helping a waiter drag over two more chairs. Val nudged him and muttered something he didn’t seem to quite understand.

“Hi, Dr. Larama!” Astrid said in a high voice when they reached the table.

“Hey, Dad, Mom,” Hiccup muttered, glancing out to the street.

“Oh, you’re dressed up,” Val gasped, and reached for Hiccup’s hand. “You look well, dear, how are you feeling?”

 _Feeling_. How was he feeling. “I feel fine,” he told his mother shortly, attempting to smile by way of a grimace. Why stop at asking how he felt, why not announce his mental illness to the entire restaurant? Send everyone a copy of his prescription? Whatever, he was overreacting, he knew it—but why did they always get to _ruin everything_?

“What’s the occasion?” asked Stoick, clapping Hiccup on the shoulder. He indicated the chairs he’d had brought over. “Here, join us.”

When Astrid hesitated, Hiccup said quickly, “It’s Astrid’s birthday! We… are meeting our friends here for a nice dinner, don’t know where they are, we were gonna go check outside.” She looked at him, astonished at the proficiency of this lie, and turned to his parents with a nervous laugh.

Stoick took the fib without incident: “Happy birthday, then, Astrid!” But Hiccup saw his mother smile uncertainly. Shit—what if she remembered that Astrid’s birthday wasn’t until May? What if—

“We’re on a date,” Astrid blurted.

Hiccup groaned and deliberately turned away for a beat, not wanting to see the looks on his parents’ faces.

“Oh,” said his father’s voice, stumped. He was so thick sometimes, Hiccup could hardly believe it. His mom didn’t gasp because she’d known the moment she laid eyes on them. It had always been like that with her, once she’d come back from Cambodia to visit for a week and he said the name of a girl in _passing_ and instantly his mother had replied, _so you like her?_ Like some genie. Val had always understood him better than Stoick and he resented it, a bit.

“That’s wonderful,” Val said. Hiccup considered throwing Astrid over his shoulder and making a run for it.

“Yeah,” said Astrid, in that same high voice.

“Is it your birthday?” Stoick inquired, looking dumbly between them, not quite getting it.

“No, Dad, it’s not her birthday. I was lying because I didn’t want to tell you we were on a date.”

Val shot Stoick a look across the table that said, plain as day, _I told you so_.

“We’ll let you get on with your night,” his mom told them frankly.

But Stoick shook his head. “Why shouldn’t they eat with us? I want to get to know my son’s girlfriend—”

“Girlfriend?” repeated Astrid, with another panicked giggle. Hiccup shut his eyes—a genuine disaster! Five star catastrophe! Well done!

“It’ll be a double date,” declared Stoick happily, pulling out a chair for Astrid. “Here you are.” She threw Hiccup a distressed look as she lowered herself into the proffered seat.

“Stoick,” muttered Val.

“Don’t worry about it, Az, let’s just go,” Hiccup told her under his breath, moving to take her hand.

Astrid eyed his parents for a moment and an odd expression came over her. “No, let’s stay. It’ll be fun to talk to them, after everything that’s happened in the past year.” Hiccup’s stomach dropped, he _knew_ that tone, he knew that his parents had frustrated Astrid as much as they’d frustrated him and that she didn’t have the familial love to soften it. She had wanted to protect him, from his own _parents_ , and now she wanted some kind of revenge _._ Pretty standard Astrid: protect at all costs, and should you fail, destroy. Not that it was an unwarranted impulse, or anything, he knew that anger well—it just felt so bizarre. It had only been three weeks. He couldn’t quite tell if her involvement was the involvement of a best friend or a girlfriend, and it seemed important that he know this, before he let her publicly chew out his parents for their treatment of him.

“Astrid, I really think we should go.”

She caught the seriousness in his words, and the manic fury melted from her face. She stood slowly, tossed Val and Stoick a nervous smile. “Yes. Maybe another time.”

Stoick sounded rattled; maybe he’d picked up on the vague threat beneath Astrid’s request that the four of them talk. “Aye. Another time.”

With a quick goodbye, Hiccup took Astrid’s hand and dragged her out of the restaurant.

They made it about fifteen feet down the street before she broke away from him, spluttering. “My _birthday_?”

“You weren’t coming up with anything! And you couldn’t even keep it up—”

“I’m bad at the whole like, lying deal, okay?”

“Oh, but subtly harassing my parents over dinner is _normal_ behavior?” he snapped, scowling.

Astrid folded her bare arms across her chest, huffing. “Did you even _tell_ them what assholes they were being last semester?” Hesitating, Hiccup took a step back and licked his lips, which gave her the answer she needed. He’d been meaning to say something, he just… “Yeah, see, fucking _fine_ , sorry for standing up for you.”

“I’m just saying, maybe you should, _hm_ , be my girlfriend before you accuse my parents of being horrible to me?” People passing on the sidewalk gave them a wide, nervous breadth.

“We agreed we weren’t going to label it!”

“Why should they listen to anything that the girl I’m sleeping with has to say about their parenting skills?”

“That’s not what I am,” she said in a tight voice, “You _know_ it’s not just that—”

“I know! They don’t! And you want to say a bunch of shit to them about last spring like you’re—like you’re a member of our family, but you’re _not_ , it’s none of your fucking business.” He’d stepped into her without realizing it and she grew to look less angry and more upset, but he had to heave this off his chest. “And if you _wanted_ to be a member of our family one day? It’s not gonna endear them to you or anything, they’re just going to think, ‘oh, there’s that presumptuous bitch who thought she could tell us every fucking thing about our family because she spent three weeks doing our kid!’”

He had to catch his breath after this, and paced the sidewalk a few feet before turning back to her. Astrid gave him the smallest glare. “You just said a lot of shit.”

“Oh, you know it’s true!”

“I’m going to want to be a member of your family? Seriously?” Her expression didn’t change. A layer of fear slithered over his frustration. He’d forgotten she could hurt him, he’d left himself exposed.

“Listen, okay, that was an overstatement—”

“It’s an overstatement that I should watch what I say around your parents because they’re going to be my in-laws one day? And I should want them to like me? Because that’s what you meant, right?” she demanded, raising her arms as if to say, _fight me, Haddock_.

“Jesus,” Hiccup said, but he thought, _I am an idiot_ , and stuck his hand through his hair. She was right, that was exactly what he’d meant.

“And I’m the one who’s getting ahead of myself, right,” she snorted.

He did not know how to defend his relentless optimism about them, did not know how to explain that this wasn’t some ridiculous notion he’d devised to trap her, only a hope he had, for a future he could see. “Then sorry for liking you,” he tried, shrugging his shoulders, “Sorry for thinking that we could make something of _this_ —” A frantic gesture between them. “Sorry I can see us together in two months and six and a year, that’s—that’s not crazy to me, I mean, I know I’m a little crazy, but I didn’t think I was being crazy about us.” He used that word, crazy, to rein in the unwieldy thing in his brain that made some days harder than others. “You should probably let me know if I am,” he said, a little softer, hoping it did not sound too much like the age-old plea: _tell me I’m not crazy_.

Astrid stood with a hand on her hip and a tap in her foot, watching him, and glanced down the block. “This is a stupid fight.”

“Yeah, right,” he laughed humorlessly.

“I just want you to stand up for yourself, Hic, it makes me so…”

“I know, it’s bad, I… really want me to stand up for myself too.” His eyes drifted to the entrance to the restaurant, a few doors down. He could still do it. He could run in there and—he didn’t know. There was something to be said, but he didn’t have it yet. He’d only just pulled it together with Astrid. He didn’t think he could fix another huge life problem this month. “I will,” he assured her. “Today’s not the day.”

Ducking her head, she took a shy step toward him. “I’m sorry for being impatient, then. And overbearing, domineering, whatever horrible presumptuous bitch—” Hiccup winced. “—word you want to use.”

“God, I’m so—”

“It’s okay, it was effective.” She shook her head, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I know you’re sorry. But also, if you ever call me a bitch again, you’re going to learn the true meaning of bitchiness,” she said sweetly.

“I accept that. Though, for the record, it was my parents who theoretically called you a bitch. If we wanna be precise.”

She gave him a tiny smile. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

Instinctively, his hands came to her shoulders. “You’re not overbearing. You’re overprotective. But you don’t need to be, I swear, I’m a big boy.”

“Yeah, you are,” she said, suggestive grin curling her mouth.

“Keep it PG, Hofferson.” (But it was a nice thing to hear.)

She laughed and kissed him briefly, then pulled away with a little noise. “Hey, I’m still hungry. What about the surprise?”

“Well. All right.” He drew out of their embrace but kept an arm around her shoulders; they started up the street together. “Food’s easy. What do you want?”

“Mmm,” she smacked her lips. “I want something really bad for me. I want to eat a bunch of hotdogs with like, chili on them.”

He pecked her temple. “Very sexy, I like a woman who eats multiple chili dogs in one sitting.” Somewhere with hotdogs. A streetcart, or—

“And the surprise?” She prodded the softness of his stomach.

“Hey, it’s still a surprise,” he said, hoping she couldn’t hear the lie in his voice.

“There’s no surprise, is there?”

Someplace with hotdogs. Oh. He hopped in place, he had it. _Of course_.

“Can you hold out forty-five minutes for a hotdog?”

“Forty-five minutes?” she whined.

“We need to get the train—it’ll be worth it, I swear, okay?”

And it was worth it. After waiting in a long line at Nathan’s, they sat on the Coney Island boardwalk with their hotdogs and Astrid, learning patience just for his benefit, listened to a short speech on the virtues of these particular hotdogs and this particular boardwalk, both fixtures from his childhood. Luna Park and the Cyclone whirled and flashed at their backs, the Atlantic before them, a black expanse beyond the lights of New Jersey and Long Island. He pointed out the planes taking off from JFK. Astrid told him, fighting to keep all the chili on her (singular) hotdog, “This is cliché.”

He’d thought that too. He noticed she was sort of smiling, her face yellow and red and purple in the flashing glow from the amusement park. “I don’t mind it,” he offered, coy, eyes on his own dinner. He felt her watch him.

“Yeah,” she laughed. “We’re kind of cliché.”

“Are we?”

“Yeah. We’re so cute it’s disgusting.”

“I hadn’t noticed that,” he said, trying not to smile too hard at the ground.

“Wow, are you laughing at me?”

“No!”

“Jerk,” she muttered, grinning. “You remember when you were like,” she slipped into a rather jarring impression of him, “ _Oh, Astrid, sorry I like you so much and want to be with you forever, I’m a sap, love me, you have to tell me if I’m crazy_ —”

“I do not sound like that!”

“No, you do.”

“My arms—” The weird gesticulating, did he really…

“Yes, it’s completely accurate.” She puts her hands on his, he couldn’t stop laughing, he wanted to laugh into her mouth but she looked to be thinking about something else. “I just wanted to say that you’re not crazy.” His laughter died away, quelled by the intensity of the expression she wore, plain and eager. “I know you’re freaking out about it a little,” she said, toying with a lock of his hair. “You can still freak out about it if you need to. I’ll tell you whenever you want. You’re not crazy.”

Astrid pulled away, back to her hotdog. He thought about telling her he loved her, but he wasn’t sure he did, or that he would feel he did tomorrow, and when he did it he wanted to be absolutely sure. “Pretty disgusting,” he managed, squinting down the shore.

“We’re gross,” she agreed, and punched him in the arm and pointed toward the games and rides behind them. “I’m full. I want to go shoot some stuff and win you a stuffed animal.” She linked her arm in his to drag him from the bench, prompting another fit of laughter from Hiccup.

“As you wish, milady.”

“That’s the spirit,” she declared, and drew him into a kiss before they headed for the multicolored lights.


	24. You Like It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't already know, I think this fic will go to 30 or so chapters, through the end of their sophomore year; and then a sequel will cover junior and senior years.

“I can convince her,” Astrid announced. “Ruff is coming to Comic Con this year.”

Hiccup only made a small, disbelieving noise. University Place stretched south before them, the corner of Washington Square visible ahead. They’d taken to walking each other to class.

“I just think she’s been—going through something, I don’t know. Everything’s been weird.” It was a cloudy day, cool enough in early October that she’d snuck a hoodie from his drawer this morning and wore it over her tank top, dragging the over-large garment back up when it slid down her shoulders. He had yet to complain about her thievery. “Something’s up.”

“Did you tell her what Eret said?”

She glanced at Hiccup. He looked straight ahead, expression neutral, hands looped into the straps of his backpack. “No. I’m not mean.” They had never really discussed that night, aside from the apologies, and they certainly hadn’t mentioned Eret. Astrid felt content to scrub Eret from her mind, to ignore the guilt he’d kicked up, to deny the alternative wave of indignation, furious that she should be made to feel guilty for something that was not her fault. But that was what they did, guys like Eret, guys like Ben. She thought of taking Hiccup’s hand, but a guy with a hacking cough passed them on the sidewalk, and she winced.

“Eh,” he laughed, their shoulders bumping. “You’re kind of mean.”

“Shut up.”

“See?”

She scoffed and shoved his arm. “Whatever. You like it.”

“Maybe.” A smile tugged at his mouth. “If Ruff’s not going, you need to let me know soon so I can sell her pass.” The con was in two weeks—where had the first month of the semester gone, anyway? Except she knew where it had gone, it had gone into _this_ , right here, her and Hiccup. It seemed worth it. But still unreal, anyway.

“I can get her to come,” Astrid insisted. “I’ll be sneaky about it. She won’t want to go and suddenly—” She raised her hands, a magician’s flourish. “She just will!” Tricking Ruff sounded like a more legitimate option than using logic, the more she thought about it. Either way, _something_ needed to happen; Ruff had stopped doing her dishes, she didn’t go out, only got high and camped out on the couch to watch the CW or Bravo. Sometimes Lifetime, when things were particularly difficult. It was, in Astrid’s view, a stone-cold bummer.

“All right, “ said Hiccup, doing nothing to disguise his skepticism.

She shot him a dirty look. “You doubt me, Haddock?”

“Nah, I believe in you wholeheartedly. Which is how I know tact isn’t your strong suit—” Astrid pouted fiercely. “—and that tricking her into coming for her own good is going to blow up in your face.”

“I have to _try_.”

“Get Fish to ask her.”

“Fish?” she snorted. “You think Fish would have an easier time?”

Hiccup licked his lips, eyeing her. They’d reached the square and paused outside the tall building where he had his class. “Yeah, actually. I do.” She frowned at him, feeling like she was missing something, but Hiccup’s face gave nothing away—he was peering thoughtfully past the revolving door.

“Maybe Fish can be my plan B, or something,” she said, ducking her head. When she looked up Hiccup was grinning at her. “What?” she demanded, flushing.

“Nothing, you’re just adorable.” He pecked her bright red cheek and started inside.

“Oh, boo, hiss!” she called after.

Hiccup gave her a quick wave and replied, “See you later, Az,” before disappearing.

\--

That night, she launched her campaign.

“Oh, hey, there you are.”

Ruff, snugged into her usual spot on the couch with a bowl of cheesy popcorn on her stomach, glanced around, like she didn’t quite understand to whom Astrid was talking. “I… live here.”

Okay, so not the smoothest introduction. Astrid had planted herself just by the television, so her roommate had to look at her, but she didn’t block the picture. The Kardashians were on, the volume low. “Me too,” Astrid blurted, her tongue feeling cumbersome. Ruff squinted at her.

“What do you want?”

So maybe Hiccup had a point.   

Astrid groaned and shut her eyes. “Can I sit with you?” Ruff nudged over, letting her roommate plunk down beside her. “So I bought you a pass for Comic Con.”

Ruff had slumped so low on the couch that the cushions stood up her pale blue hair in the back. She stared blankly at Astrid, raised a piece of popcorn to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “No.”

“Please!”

“No.”

“It’s so fun—”

“Just because you like geek D, doesn’t mean we all have to sink to your level.”

“That’s not—” _Geek D_. “I don’t go just to make Hiccup happy, I legitimately enjoy it. And you would too, it’s not just comic books, it’s movies and TV and tons of—there’s something for everybody, I swear.” Geek D!

Ruff rolled her eyes. “You applying for their marketing team or something?”

“You’d have fun!”

“God, Astrid,” she stuffed a handful of popcorn in her mouth, gaze wandering back to the television. “You’re desperate.”

Time to change tactics, then. “You’re a huge bummer and you need to get out of the apartment.”

Ruff froze in the midst of sucking cheese dust off her finger. “What?”

“I just…” How to say this without causing major offense. “Last year you always wanted to go and do things, and you were always annoying me about going and doing things, and now you… aren’t annoying me at all.”

“You’re doing a terrible job with this,” said Ruff bluntly.

Astrid threw up her hands—she hated being the supportive friend, she wasn’t good at it, and with these girls in this apartment it always fell to her. “I’m trying to help! I want you to be okay.”

“Be okay?” Ruff repeated, attempting to come off incredulous, but Astrid heard the flicker of embarrassment underneath it.

“Is it Snot? Do you need me to destroy him?”

Ruff let out a low groan, clearly dismayed by the reminder, and Astrid laughed—Snot had little to do with it, she guessed, he was a mere casualty of Ruff’s war on herself. After squirming in her seat for a moment, Ruff peeked at her over the popcorn bowl. “Nice offer. Might take you up on it.”

Astrid gave her a smile, then hesitating, asking a little quieter: “Is it… Eret?”

She nearly fell off the couch at the force of the snort that came out of Ruff. “It’s not a boy! Everything’s always about boys with you, _god_ —”

“It is not,” she gasped.

“Well, not _now_ , not since—” Ruff gestured across the hall, presumably indicating 11B, Hiccup’s apartment. Astrid’s face felt warm. “But for a while there it was all ‘he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not, oh boohoo, whatever shall I do’.”

“Fine, whatever,” grumbled Astrid.

“Seriously, you were pathetic—”

“I got it, Ruff! We’re talking about you.” 

“Sure,” Ruff grumbled, flopping back. “I’m on academic probation.”

Astrid sat back. Academic probation affected students whose GPAs fell below 2.0—it was one step above flunking out. To Astrid, such shame constituted a fate worse than death, but she tried to check the horror in her face. It would not help Ruff. “Oh,” she managed, not sounding as surprised as she would’ve liked. A collection of memories flew to the front of her brain: her roommate bragging about not studying for an exam, blowing off class, or attending with a hangover. But Ruff looked miserable, raising another resigned fist of cheesy popcorn to her mouth. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, don’t tell my brother.” Astrid got the feeling that if Tuff didn’t know, Mr. and Mrs. Thorston didn’t know, and Ruff valued that.

“I won’t.” Astrid pulled Hiccup’s hoodie a little tighter around herself. “If you ever need help studying, though, I could—”

“Please stop,” said Ruff, the line of her mouth hard.

She shrunk away from her roommate. Less condescending, she could do that. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. I don’t know what happened, I got in here—in high school I was smart enough I didn’t need to like, study or anything,” Ruff sighed.

“You’re still smart.”

“I’m smart when I like something. So far I’ve taken Econ, Poli Sci, Anthro, and Chem. I don’t like anything.”

“You haven’t liked a single class?”

Ruff’s head careened to the side. “No, I guess I liked American Popular Music.”

“Music.” Yeah, she _knew_ that Ruff was into music, she had a guitar and a ukulele and a room plastered with band covers, but Astrid had never really processed it as something you could do as _school_. To her school meant memorizing all the bones in the arm. “That sounds cool,” she offered, wanting to sound like she understood the interest. “Why don’t you take more music classes?”

“Because they’re hard to get, and what am I going to do with a degree in music?” Ruff replied, as though this were obvious.

“Maybe you don’t have to know what you’re going to do yet.” This was about the least Astrid thing that Astrid had ever said, by her own estimation, but she managed to push it out. Ruff must’ve realized how weird and difficult this was for her friend—she gave her a grudgingly appreciative look, then nodded.

“Yeah. Maybe I don’t.”

“Tuff’s going.” The change of topic caught Ruff off guard. “And Fish is going. To Comic Con.” A light came went in Ruff’s eyes.

“They are?”

“Yeah, yeah, so you know, it’d be the five of us…”

“And no weird outfits, right?”

Astrid sucked her teeth, averting her eyes. “I don’t think either of them is dressing up this year, no.”

“But you are,” Ruff realized. It wasn’t even a question. Astrid shrugged sheepishly, attentive to the seam on her jeans. “God, you’re doing some kind of dweeby thing with Hiccup, aren’t you?”

“If you come to Comic Con you’ll find out!”

For a second Ruff looked like she was ready to hit something, and then she groaned. “Fine. I’ll come. I can’t resist watching you embarrass yourself in front of thousands of equally embarrassing people.”

“Aha!” Astrid popped to her feet. “You won’t regret it.”

\--

“Nerds,” Ruff gasped, when she saw them in costume for the first time.

“I think we look good, babe,” Astrid told Hiccup happily, helping him tie on the mask. “I wish you’d dyed your hair, though.”

“You want me to go blonde?”

“No, okay, I guess I don’t.”

Fish was sitting with Ruff on the couch in the boys’ apartment, as they all prepared to head uptown to the convention center. “The Buttercup dress is crazy good, Hiccup.”

Hiccup grinned and started fussing with Astrid’s voluminous skirt. “It’s great, right?” It _was_ a beautiful dress, folds and folds of crimson faux silk, billowy sleeves with tight cuffs, just like the one in the movie. It was a bit odd to have him more concerned with her clothes than with what was under them, and weirder still had been having him do her hair this morning, but she let herself be jostled around by his machinations—all par for the course, she supposed.

“Christ,” muttered Ruff, really looking at Astrid for the first time. “It _is_ kind of uncanny how much you look like her.”

“Hiccup’s very talented,” Astrid said, beaming. He was on the carpet, doing a quick stitch on her hem. He just nodded, not a shred of humility, and she gave his mask a playful tug. His Westley cosplay was black on black on black, not quite as intricate as hers, but equally precise. As much as she liked the jeans-tee-hoodie thing—he had many shades of one outfit—it made her want to play dress-up. See what he’d look like in slacks, like a grown-ass man.

Ruff frowned at them. “Damn, you guys are _gross_.” Astrid flipped her off and helped Hiccup to his feet, just as Tuff burst from the hallway, wearing a Captain America shirt and grinning.

“I’m ready! I’m ready, let’s go!”

Astrid’s second con beat her first, if only because now she knew just what to appreciate, and where to find the bathroom without a line, and they’d already coordinated poses for when people wanted a picture. Like an epithet hurled at the past, Hiccup kissed her enthusiastically for several photographs, to the great annoyance of Ruff, who announced that she didn’t like hanging around to watch them “flaunt their weirdness.” She turned to Fish and insisted that he take her “somewhere better” and Tuff trailed behind them, which left Hiccup and Astrid to wander the show floor together, nodding and waving to the people who recognized them—or, their characters.

At one point he grabbed her arm and she felt herself being dragged somewhere—“Astrid, Astrid, _look_!”

He’d brought her to a vendor stall— _Medieval Memories_. She thought it was kind of a gauche name, but the display of armor and leather goods and weaponry was… pretty cool, yeah. Hiccup had tugged the masked down and hovered excitedly by some swords in a glass display case.

“These are incredible, look at the detail—I’ve never seen one that good in person before!”

Astrid peeked over his shoulder: it looked like a nice enough sword, to her untrained eye. “Which one do you like?”

“The claymore, but I like the Viking sword too.”

“Okay, I don’t know which ones those are, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“That’s the claymore—” He pointed to one that just looked like a plain old sword to her, but the hilt of it pointed downward, toward the blade. “And that’s the Viking sword, you can tell by the inscription on the blade, it’s Norse.” This one had a thicker blade and a slightly stubby hilt. So she saw the difference. Point for Astrid.

“Right, okay.” She leaned in a little closer, trying to make out the tiny white card posted by the claymore. “Holy shit, this thing costs seven hundred dollars?”

“The best reproductions can run into the thousands,” said Hiccup simply, continue to ogle weapons.

Astrid sighed heavily, leaning back against the case. “You really are a nerd, Hiccup.”

He smiled, gaze trained on the bejeweled handle of the claymore. “You like it.”

“Maybe,” she smirked.

“When I was a kid, the only way my dad could get me excited to go to Scotland was to promise to take me to a castle. I just got into this stuff, I don’t know.” He pressed his nose to the glass. Big green eyes.

“You didn’t want to Scotland?” Astrid could not imagine being offered something as cool and precious as a trip abroad and not taking it. They’d never had the money to travel much when she was young, with three kids and two government-employed parents—they went skiing occasionally, that was it. She’d been to Mexico once on a road trip. Hiccup’s global life was fascinating, and enviable.

“No. It was cold and damp and my gran pinched my cheeks and called me by my real name.”

Astrid hissed. “Yikes. I wouldn’t want to go if I were going to get called your real name, either.”

He straightened up, pouting. “Hey, it’s not _that_ bad.”

“Nah, it’s horrible. I can’t even pronounce it. And you kind of say it with a Scottish accent, so it always sounds like ‘Ocean.””

“Oisian,” he corrected, sounding petulant. “ _Osh-ee-an.”_

“Ocean,” Astrid repeated. She giggled when he banged his head against the display case. “I’ve never seen a castle.” It was hard to picture one that didn’t look like the Disney logo.

He picked himself up off of the display, a little crease between his brows. “Scotland has some of the best castles in the world.”

He seemed very serious about this; she didn’t quite know how to respond, so she gave a little shrug and pretended to adjust something on her dress. “Okay.”

“There’s this one, Eilean Donan. It’s on an island in the middle of a loch and you walk across this bridge—it’s really cool.” Astrid nodded weakly. “We can go together,” he said, and her head snapped up.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you can come to Scotland with me next time I go and we’ll drive up and see it.” The corners of his mouth snuck upwards, he gave her a sideways glance. “Assuming you’re okay to drive on the correct side of the road for once in your life. And you can get to meet my gran and hear how to say my name the right way.”

“Yeah,” she said, mirroring the smile, but a little uncertain. It was so noisy in the marketplace, there were tons of people streaming by in the walkway ten feet from them, and here he was offhandedly inviting her to another country with him. Not a bad thing, only she had sort of expected for this to be happening under different circumstances. “That’s kind of a big commitment, isn’t it?”

“Not a commitment,” he laughed—nervous, she realized, he had been as nervous to say it as she was to hear it. “Just something we could maybe do. One day. For fun. Not gonna hold you to it or anything.” He kept not looking at her straight on. He looked at the floor, at the swords, at the portly salesman dressed like a Game of Thrones character (about as specific as she could get).

“So.” She tugged at the cuff of her dress, the dress he’d made for her with such care. “How have you been feeling about the past month and a half?”

He reached over and linked his fingers with hers, and she took a deep breath. “Pretty amazing, actually.”

“Me too. What do you think?” Something she really liked about Hiccup: she could ask a question unadorned by context and he’d know exactly what she meant.

“I think you’re the one who didn’t want labels.”

“All right, then… consider yourself labeled.”

A grin split Hiccup’s face. Oddly, it seemed like he had more freckles when he smiled. “Dating? Not just going on dates but like—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“In a relationship?”

“Yes,” she said, barely able to get it out for the giggle fit that had come over her.

“Ha!” With their linked hands, he spun her around. “Milady, how I have dreamed of having a girlfriend as hot as thee.”

“I could beat you up,” she pointed out, still spinning.

“I welcome it!”

Astrid leapt out of their weird little dance to wrap her arms around his neck. From the crowd streaming by the stand, a man’s voice yelled, “Nice Buttercup!” She planted a hard kiss against Hiccup’s mouth before he could thank the stranger, so hard that he actually stumbled back a half-step, laughing against her. She didn’t know what to call the swell in her chest, aside from happiness. She had never been all that good with words.

They broke apart, matching grins. “Let’s go find our friends,” he suggested, like he was ready to announce their engagement.

She didn’t mind, let him pull her along. “Aye, Ocean.”


	25. Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual chatter in this one, but nothing I'd call smut.

“Dr. Larama?”

Inside the office, Dr. Larama whirled around in her chair. Astrid waved from the doorway. “Astrid. Hello. Come in.”

She did, mincing her steps to the chair that sat across from her advisor’s desk. “I have a recommendation form for this internship I’m applying to. The application isn’t due until January, but I wanted to make sure you had lots of time to fill it out.”

“That’s very considerate of you,” said Dr. Larama, accepting the paper.

Dr. Larama’s office, a familiar enough space to Astrid, was cozy and eclectic, with its managed clutter and the same global decorating scheme as her apartment. She kept little chocolates in a bowl on her desk, and had one of those mini sand gardens you could rake to calm down. So Astrid liked the office—she wasn’t sure she liked Dr. Larama.

The last time she’d seen the professor was that strange encounter in the restaurant, on she and Hiccup’s first date. Almost two months ago, now. Barring any serious advising dilemmas, it was normal for a student and advisor to go that long or longer without meeting. Astrid had felt rather blessed by this fact, until she’d realized that all the build-up would make it incredibly awkward when they did meet again.

And it was _super_ fucking awkward.

She sensed right away that Dr. Larama had not forgotten Astrid’s dalliance with her son, and Astrid guessed that Hiccup hadn’t seen fit to fill his mother in on anything that had happened since then, which meant the responsibility might fall to Astrid. And she didn’t want that, she just wanted to get her stupid recommendation so she could get this internship and get into medical school and get the fuck out of this place where she had to depend on her boyfriend’s kind of manipulative mother for career help.

Nevermind the fact that she saw herself out of NYU and still with Hiccup. Just a symptom of happiness, probably.

Dr. Larama examined the form, down her nose through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. “Is there anything you’d like me to emphasize in your evaluation?”

“Uh, just that I’m really passionate about becoming a doctor, I guess?”

“That you are. And when is the deadline, precisely?”

“January 30th.”

“All right.” Glancing up, her advisor flashed her a grin. “I will have it ready with time to spare.”

“Thank you.” Astrid grabbed her bag, but froze at the sound of the professor’s voice.

“And how is your semester, Astrid?”

She settled back into the chair, pursing her lips. She did not like where this was going. “It’s going well.”

“Good.”

A beat. Dr. Larama turned to her computer; it appeared she was plugging a reminder for Astrid’s recommendation into her calendar.

“And how is my son?”

Yep, there it was. Astrid already had an answer prepared. “I think you should ask him that.”

“Are you dating?”

This question was inappropriate, she knew it was inappropriate, and she wanted to say, “Dr. Larama, that question is inappropriate!” But that felt avoidant—it _was_ avoidant—and the truth sat on her shoulders, shoving her toward candor. Dr. Larama did not stop being Hiccup’s mother when she entered this room, and Astrid did not stop being Hiccup’s girlfriend, and even though Dr. Larama spoke in her professorial tone, not the warmer one she used with Hiccup, Astrid had a feeling she was speaking on motherly terms. So Astrid replied, plainly, “Yes.”

Her advisor’s eyes stayed on the computer screen, her expression blank. “I do wish he would tell me these things. I know he feels angry toward me, and toward his father, but you should know we only want to do better.” She looked at Astrid, a tiny, sad smile on her lips. “I’d like to know when he’s happy, or struggling. Recently I have no idea.”

Embarrassed for both of them, Astrid’s gaze fell to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what other response might fit.

“If you have children one day, you will understand. Though please do be careful, I am too young to be a grandmother.” This statement astounded Astrid, and even more astounding was the grin on Dr. Larama’s face. Suddenly she saw a lot of Hiccup in his mother—or, she saw how much of his mother was in Hiccup. That was just the sort of buoyant comment he might make under duress.

“We are—uh, I am,” Astrid replied stiffly, grabbing her bag from the floor. It occurred to her only afterward, and from the searching expression the professor had on, that this might’ve been some test to find out if she and Hiccup were having sex. Since Astrid apparently couldn’t lie to her, she would have been better off just asking, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was escaping. “Bye, Dr. Larama.”

Her advisor waved at her on the way out. “’Til next time, Astrid.”

* * *

“We’re going to be late.”

“I’m getting my coffee, Fish.”

“Astrid said ten o’clock.”

“I know what she said, Fish.”

“She doesn’t like when people are late.”

Hiccup, who’d been absently watching the barista fix his drink, turned to his friend. “Did she tell you to get on me about being late for things?”

Fish frowned and fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. “No. This is just how I am.”

“She just wants to make sure we all pull Secret Snowflake names before she has to go to her meet,” Hiccup said, flashing the barista an appreciative smile as she handed him a very full, very hot coffee. “Her bus doesn’t leave until half past eleven, and this is going to take ten minutes, tops. She’s just being cautious. We’ll say we’re sorry.” Either swayed by the arrival of the coffee or by Hiccup’s fantastic reasoning, Fish deflated with relief, and started out of the coffee shop into the larger atrium of the student union—an even busier space than usual, given that it was packed with tables and display banners, like some kind of convention. “Oh, amazing,” Hiccup muttered, drawing his coffee to his chest protectively as the two of them tried to squeeze through the sea of people. The exit on the other side of the room looked far away. “What is all this?”

“Judging from the huge sign, I’d guess it’s an international study fair,” Fish replied dryly, pointing upward.

“Thank you.”

Sarcasm aside, Fish was right: the banners and country flags and stacks of pamphlets came into focus for Hiccup. _Your Summer in Berlin_. _Study Abroad at the London School of Economics_. _Semester in Chile_.

“We have a whole school in Abu Dhabi?” he asked, pausing their trek to squint at a booth. Fish waited for him off to the side, squirming.

“Yes, of course, there are posters for it everywhere. Don’t you pay any attention?”

“You know, Fish,” Hiccup grinned at his friend, “I like when you get sassy. I really do.”

“Your girlfriend is scary when she’s angry, Hiccup!”

“All right, all right, we’re going,” he conceded, and stuffed one of the pamphlets in his pocket on their way out.

* * *

Later that week, when the Secret Snowflake names had been drawn (seventeen minutes behind schedule), and Astrid had fully kicked ass at her invitational meet, the gang attended Fish’s first poetry reading. It was also everyone else’s first poetry reading, but Fish was the only one sweating profusely.

Astrid put her hands on their friend’s shoulders. “You need to calm down.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to bear your heart and soul to a bunch of judgmental strangers!” he whispered furiously. Groaning, Astrid bit her lip and glanced at the packed main room of the creative writing building (a typical West Village townhouse, with a fireplace in every room), where at least fifty people were listening to a girl read a poem about a vagina—hers or someone else’s Astrid hadn’t figured out, she was a little busy. From his seat, Hiccup watched them, giving her an urgent look.

“Listen,” she snapped, turning to him determinedly, “You’re sweating so much you look like a melting icicle and people are going to find it disgusting, so you need to chill out, right now.”

Fish stared at her for a long moment with his mouth open, and she thought, _I did it_. And then tears formed at the corners of his eyes and she thought, _No I didn’t._

“I’m not going up,” Fish sobbed, “I’m just going to find my professor and tell her I changed my mind, she said the public reading was optional.”

“No, Fish, I’m sorry—I was just trying to motivate you, they’re going to love you, I swear!” When she looked back into the audience, Hiccup’s seat was empty; he was making his way toward them, pressed against the back wall of the living room. Relief washed Astrid, she felt better not to have to do this alone. She pecked him on the cheek as he arrived, wedging himself into the faraway nook Fish had selected for his panic attack. People clapped for the vagina poem girl, and the next student stepped up to the lectern.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not going up.”

“He doesn’t want to read.”

Hiccup frowned. “Don’t be silly, Fish. You’ll be great. I’m sure it’s a…” He eyed Astrid, out of his depth, but she had even less expertise to lend. “Really cool poem?”

“Do I look like a melting icicle? Astrid said I look like a melting icicle.”

“Did she?” She sighed and Hiccup jerked his head over his shoulder. “Why don’t you go sit, Az?”

It was hard to be insulted when this was obviously for the best, and also kind of a relief. She gave Fish one last reassuring pat and went back to her seat, where Ruff, Tuff, and Snot were waiting.

“What’s the matter?” Ruff whispered, peeking past her to get a better glimpse of the situation.

“He’s chickening out of the reading.”

Tuff poked his head across his sister, toward Astrid. “And you just made it worse?”

“Hey, shut up, it’s you all’s fault for forcing me to be the shoulder to cry on.”

“But you’re Group Mom,” Tuff explained in that simple, steady way of his that made everything seem well-reasoned, “And Hiccup is Group Dad, so we have to depend on you for this stuff.”

“Group Mom?” _Group Mom?_

“SHHHH,” Snot hissed at them, loud enough that it made Astrid and a few people sitting in the rows near them jump. “There’s a poetry reading going on, have some respect.” All three of them looked at Snot like he had three heads, but he’d turned back to watch the current poet with reverence. She thought she might have seen him wipe his eyes. There was some really messed up role reversal going on today.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” Ruff announced, after they had been silent for a minute. Before Astrid could protest, she climbed over her and out of the row. Just, yeah, bizarre. At this point, Astrid decided to be done worrying about her friends, because she was _not_ Group Mom, nor even a particularly sympathetic person, by her own estimation. She felt soft—was she going soft because of Hiccup? She’d had boyfriends before, she’d had girlfriends too, and none of them had made her go soft. Now she was experiencing some kind of inner kindness that she hadn’t even known she possessed.

Hiccup appeared at the end of the aisle and she scooted into Ruff’s seat so he wouldn’t have to step over her to sit down. “Well?” she muttered, careful to avoid a sideways glare from Snot.

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty dead set on not doing it when I left. We’ll see if Ruff can change his mind.”

“We should get him very drunk tonight if he does it.”

“We should,” Hiccup laughed, and took her hand.

A few minutes later, they applauded and the last poet before Fish stepped off the lectern, which sat vacant for a good ten seconds. Astrid realized she was holding her breath, and also that Ruff had never returned from talking to him—she didn’t know whether or not that was a good sign.

Fish appeared, finally, looking a little dryer than when she’d left him. In the same moment, she spied Ruff sneaking back into the living room and taking a spot against the wall. She was smiling. Fish spread his paper over the surface of the podium, and gazed out into the crowd. “Hi, my name is Francis Ingerman.”

* * *

“But I _like_ Sex on the Beach!”

“You sure do, and that is why you are cut off for at least two hours.” Fish whimpered and grabbed at the pitcher, but Astrid snatched it away and swept into the kitchen, stowing the contraband in their fridge. Back in the living room, Ruff had out her guitar and Tuff had gotten a hold of a ukulele, which he did not know how to play in the slightest. Aside from ingesting fruity cocktails, Fish had been using his poetic prowess to help them compose dirty songs, punctuated by the occasional lilting snore from Snot on the sofa. Hiccup sat on the floor with them and hugged his personal bottle of rum, and when Astrid returned she plunked down beside him.

Immediately, Hiccup leaned toward her. “Sex on the Beach is kind of a stupid name for a drink, don’t you think?”

“Don’t ask me, I didn’t name it.”

“It should be called Sex in the Dorm.”

“Very relevant,” she chuckled, and kissed him quickly, and was surprised to feel his arm around her waist, dragging her toward him into a deeper embrace. He tasted like the rum, and broke away to laugh into her shoulder. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him this wasted while she herself stayed sober, but she was trying to take dry season seriously this year and had only had one drink, and he was far gone, red-cheeked and bubbly. “Hey, babe,” she laughed, running a hand through his hair. He grinned and blew air on her neck.

“Hi.” Another kiss, this one initiate by him with such gusto she gasped against him, arms around his neck just to steady herself. The music stopped.

“Come _on,_ ” cried Fish, draping a dramatic arm over his face in disgust at their antics—they broke apart, Astrid supporting a giggly Hiccup.

Ruff started to pluck out the melody to “Like A Virgin” on her guitar. “Just go to Astrid’s room already, we know you’re headed there.” Astrid stood and dragged Hiccup to his feet, where he wobbled and leaned against her. Ruff switched something that sounded like the bass line out of ‘70s porno. “And please keep it down, I know I was nosy at first but the walls at our place are thin and I know enough.” Blowing raspberries at her roommate, Astrid waved them all goodnight and helped Hiccup down the hall.

When they went in, she spied a black dot fleeing under the desk and decided that, since she couldn’t catch the cat herself and Hiccup’s faculties were severely impaired, they’d just have to hope Toothless didn’t appear at any awkward moment. Hiccup collapsed on to her bed first thing with a hum, and Astrid crawled in after, hovering above him so they could kiss, because she didn’t think he was capable of supporting himself through a more vertical make out—though he found the coherence to touch her breasts at length. Naturally. Enjoying the particularly adventurous, messy tricks of his tongue—fooling around drunk had its benefits—she reached down between them and started on his fly.

They broke the kiss so he could work on the top buttons of shirt, a difficult task for his unfocused fingers. “You’re not hard,” she pointed out, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice.

“Give it a minute,” he muttered, and in the interest of speeding things up she began to suck carefully at his neck. Which he enjoyed for about ten seconds, judging from the noises, and then Hiccup gasped and clutched her arms.

“Wait, wait—not on my neck, I’m going to my mom’s for break in two days, she’ll see.”

“Does she really have any illusions?” She asked, but she knew the answer, given that it was she who’d shattered said illusions earlier that week. She hadn’t seen fit to update Hiccup on how much, precisely, his mother knew about their relationship, so she understood his need to be cautious, considering the family history. His father would probably be there for the upcoming holiday, too. Astrid had considered whether it was cowardly of her to hide his mother’s intrusions, but she decided it was for the best—he didn’t need another degree of parental grief hanging over his life. The least she could do was not tell him about the grandmother comment.

He pouted up at her, looking really very great with his hair mussed and his lips swollen and the blush of rum on his face. “Dunno… please.”

“No visible hickeys, okay.” She sat up and pushed up the bottom of his shirt, and grinned. “What about one you could hide?”

“Uh,” squeaked Hiccup, as she started scooting down the bed, and tugging at his boxers to reveal the smooth whiteness of his hipbone, marred by a single brownish fleck.

“Look at that freckle,” she muttered. He squirmed when she put her mouth on him, suckling and once rolling the skin gently between her teeth so that he whimpered, and panted, and reached down as if to stroke her hair but instead laid it ineffectually against the back of her head.

It was hitting her that it might be amazing to blow him. In two and a half months, she hadn’t—he never mentioned it, never asked, and whenever she went in that direction he… changed the topic, so to speak. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he wasn’t aware that blowjobs existed, like the kind of ignorance you’d expect from a space alien new to human intercourse. But he was a nineteen-year-old boy, and had to be familiar with the concept of receiving head, especially considering his obsession with giving it. Like, _had_ to.

Astrid kissed the reddened skin when she felt done and sat up, grabbing his crotch. He moaned and buried his face in the crook of his arm, but still nothing. “Seriously?”

“I think I might be too drunk.”

Shit. Astrid shut her eyes, not wanting to see the apologetic frown on Hiccup’s face. They were a few days from Thanksgiving break, they were going to be separated for a week, and then finals weren’t too far away, she wouldn’t see him for most of December and January.

“I’m sorry,” he added, reaching toward her. “I’m really sorry, I am.”

“Fuck.”

“It was a really nice hickey!” The apologist compliment to her hickey-giving skills made Astrid want to stick her head under the pillow and scream.

A little desperate, she started trying to tug his pants all the way down. “Maybe if I…” Except no part of her wanted a flaccid dick in her mouth, it was just a last ditch effort. Shit, _shit_.

“Astrid.” And his hands folded over hers, halting her.

She rocked back, looking down at him, feeling her chin wobble a little. Then she sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. You’re drunk, we shouldn’t.”

He opened his arms and, giving up, she fell into them, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, gentler, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Maybe in the morning.”

She huffed. “You’re going to be hungover in the morning.”

“Then tomorrow night.”

Winding her hand into the fabric of his shirt, she pressed her nose into his chest, inhaling. “I’m going to miss you so much.” This was the kind of weak, sweet thing she didn’t think she could say to anyone but him, anywhere but here, in the calm quiet privacy of a shared twin bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, lowering his voice to match hers.

“I mean over Thanksgiving break. I’m not going to see you for like, a week.”

“That’s not so long.”

“But then we’re only back here for two weeks before winter break, and that’s a whole month.”

Hiccup stared at the ceiling, the corners of his mouth curving downward. He looked to be thinking about something else but she couldn’t guess what. “We’ll skype all the time.”

She beat her fist against his shoulder. “Just let me whine about not getting to see you, okay? And pretend you’re going to miss me, too.”

“Of course I’ll miss you. Here,” he said, nudging her. “Roll over.”

“What?” Admittedly her pulse quickened at this instruction—she thought maybe he’d managed to get it up, by some miracle. Not that demanding she roll over was commonplace (or even existent, as far as she knew) in Hiccup’s sexual vocabulary, but she was worked up enough to hope.

“I want to be the big spoon.”

“Oh.” She started to laugh, shifting to her side so he could curl against her. “Oh, you dork.”

“I am the most lovable dork in the world,” he announced with a slight slur, “And sexiest.”

“I would make fun of you but I don’t think you could take it right now, so yeah, sure you are, babe.”

He whined and pressed into her back harder, which was unfortunately kind of hot. Perhaps she’d take him up on that morning sex offer after all, perhaps it would be good for his hangover. “You’re supposed to think I’m sexy.”

“I do, okay, I do. Very sexy.” And that was the truth, in a big way. He made a tiny contented noise and poked his nose into her shoulder. Astrid spoke before she knew why she was saying what she said. “Why won’t you let me give you a blowjob?” But the reason she’d asked dawned on her: she couldn’t take advantage of him drunk, but she could still sort of… take advantage of his drunkenness. Was this the best time for a serious conversation about sex? Almost certainly not. Was that part of the reason she’d chosen now to ask? Almost certainly yes.

Slowly, he pulled his nose away from her, and she stared at the wall, until the silence got to her.

“Have you not had one before? Did you think I wouldn’t be into it? Because, it’s different when you’re in a relationship, and you… I mean, you spend a lot of time down on me, I can return the favor every once and a while.”

A pause, and still nothing from him. Swallowing some nerves, she turned to get a better look at his face, and knew at once she had royally fucked up. His mouth hung open, and he genuinely seemed like he might start to cry. Which struck her as a bit of an overreaction, but alcohol tended to up the ante on smaller tragedies.

“Oh, no, babe, it’s okay—” Moving away from her, he started gesticulating like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words, probably lost to intoxication and shock. “I shouldn’t have asked, we can talk about it when you’re sober.”

He sat up, head in his hands, and she propped herself up too. “I can’t…”

“That’s okay, you don’t have to right now.” The smile she gave him wasn’t entirely forced—it was sort of cute to watch a drunk, flustered Hiccup descend into panic, as guilty as she felt.

“I can’t,” he said again, hands shaking, and her smile wavered. She had startled him too much and, in his liquored-up state, triggered some kind of mental response. _Think fast, Dr. Hofferson._

“Hold on.” She climbed over him and hopped from the bed, going to the desk. Toothless’s green eyes greeted her from a small, dark corner beneath it. Screwing her eyes shut—she was not great with cats, picking them up frightened her a little—she leaned over and scooped him into her arms, and brought the animal to Hiccup, who accepted him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The anxiety waned from his face as he stroked the cat’s head. After the PTSD had been explained to her, Astrid had taken a couple of psychology texts from the library and was trying to educate herself. She had begun to catalogue the best remedies for panic attacks, or mood swings, and Toothless topped the list.

When he seemed better, she kissed him on the cheek and got back into bed. “Let’s go to sleep,” she suggested, and he nodded. So they laid back, and she wound her arm around his, and Toothless curled up on his chest, purring. Hiccup switched off the bedside lamp, which left them in calm darkness. Still dressed, and he had on his prosthetic, but they’d fallen asleep on the floor once so it wasn’t the least comfortable option. She had almost dozed off when another thought struck her, a hazy sort of musing. “Hey,” she whispered, “Do you think Ruff and Fish are going to be a thing?”

“Nah,” he exhaled, the cat falling and rising with his breath.

“I think Ruff likes him.”

“Me too.”

“So why not?”

Hiccup turned to look at her, their noses almost touching against his pillow. “He doesn’t like her back.”

Somehow Astrid had not even considered this option—Ruff was objectively very pretty, and sexually fluent, which should have been a dream for Fish after being rejected by someone he truly liked. But on second thought, that wasn’t fair to a thoughtful, emotional person like Fish. He had grown a lot in the past year, too. “Oh,” she said, and snugged into his arm.

“He might just think that someone like her would never go for someone like him.” He spoke plaintively, it made her wonder.

“Did you ever feel that way about me?”

Hiccup sighed, and in the dim light from the streetlights outside his window, she saw his eyes flutter closed. “Didn’t stop me from liking you.” Another sigh. “You ask hard questions.”

Ugh. “Okay, okay, no more questions, I swear.”

“I’ll miss you, Az. I will.” He heaved out these words, not totally recovered from his earlier episode.

Astrid reached over and tucked a bit of stray hair behind his ear. “I know.”

“It doesn’t matter how long I’m gone. Or where I go. I’ll miss you.”

She was glad he couldn’t see the puzzled smile on her face, as she spoke to him in the slightly patronizing way you did with confused drunks. “Well, you’re not going anywhere, are you? You’ll be in New York.”

He breathed out slowly and Toothless sunk six inches toward the bed. “Yeah.”

“But you can still miss me horribly.”

“Mhm. We’re sleeping now,” he mumbled, half-conscious.

“Yeah, we are. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Az.” But she didn’t fall asleep for another twenty minutes—she was busy debating how much he’d remember in the morning.


	26. Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter consists entirely of a conversation over brunch. Did you know Hiccup and Astrid talk a lot? Who’d have thought.
> 
> It’s another one that wasn’t originally in my outline, and honestly, I’m kind of nervous to post it, but if you’ve survived the past 25 chapters, I think you can handle this one, or at least laugh it off.

Two days later, after two nights of restoring their sexual success, Hiccup and Astrid went to brunch at a little café far enough from school that they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. They sat by the window, watching the foot traffic on Houston, Hiccup on his second cup of coffee by the time the food arrived. It was their farewell meal, they said: Astrid’s flight was at six that night, and when they returned to the dorm, she’d have to pack up and go home for Thanksgiving.

And she’d decided she couldn’t leave until they talked about it. She just _couldn’t_ , it went against everything she believed made a relationship healthy.

“These eggs are amazing,” Hiccup said, through a mouthful. “Best eggs ever. We should come here all the time.”

“Are you ready to talk about oral sex?”

Somehow, his fork flew out of his hand and he had to scramble to retrieve it from the floor. When he sat up, he was frowning, but Astrid stuck out her chin. She had resolved to have this conversation or die trying, for the good of _them_. “What if I don’t remember what you’re talking about?” Hiccup asked slowly. She raised an eyebrow.

“Yesterday I bent down next to you to tie my shoe and you almost jumped out of your skin.”

He waved to the waiter. “Can I get a new fork?” To his apparent dismay, Astrid was still staring him down when he turned back to her. “Do we have to do this here?”

“I picked a neutral public place because I didn’t want you to feel pressured to do anything.” With a shrug, she cut into her waffle. “I’m not mad. I just want to talk about it.”

“So you planned an elaborate… meal out?”

“Not that elaborate.”

“You made it impossible for me to run away.”

“Yes.”

“Why, do you think I run away from my problems or something?”

“Yes.”

“Well—fine,” he muttered, conceding but training his gaze on the steady parade of people going by. This time of year everyone wore jackets, in dozens of different colors. The waiter arrived to hand Hiccup his clean fork and scuttled away, not liking the expressions on the faces of these particular customers.

Astrid sensed she would have to nudge him along. She took a bite and chewed and swallowed, then set down her utensils. “I know you were drunk, but you had a pretty extreme reaction to what I asked.”

Remembering, he groaned and rubbed his face briskly. “God. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No, I mean, I asked at the wrong time because I was nervous about how you’d take it sober. So _I’m_ sorry.” He gave a small nod and yeah, maybe she’d been right to be nervous about that. She tried to think of other times she and Hiccup had talked—really _talked_ —about sex, and specifically sex between them. Not many considering how long it had been a question mark in both their lives. She wanted to ask if his PTSD had anything to do with the response but recalled how he’d once complained about his mother inquiring after the illness in veiled terms, _are you okay? How do you feel? Is everything going all right?_  

“I think my meds mix weirdly with alcohol,” he announced, not meeting her eye. She heard the code in his voice—that, yes, it was partly some chemical thing making him overreact. But a person couldn’t just _over_ react without an initial reaction, and that was what she wanted to know.

“Okay,” she said firmly. She cut and ate another piece of waffle before pressing him again. “But now you’re sober, so maybe you can tell me… you can answer my question.” Astrid figured she must’ve looked pretty pathetic, because his shoulders drooped at the sight of her face, like he’d been swayed by her investment alone.

“I think…” Inhaling, he rolled his head on his shoulders, and shifted in his seat. “So no, I’ve never had one before.” She ducked her head; she wanted to hide the little smile that came on to her lips, her delight that she might get to show him something new, to teach him about something he liked. “I’ve never had any sex with you where I didn’t have at least like—a little expertise to fall back on. That’s—it’s scary, all right? I have a bad track record with first times.” Hiccup rubbed his chin, and added, “And there’s also… I’m not quite sure how to explain it.”

Something about his voice here made her look up—it was sensitivity, and an understanding that made her curious. Like he was figuring out a part of himself he had never grasped before. “Explain what?” she asked weakly, taking another bite.

He sighed and set down his fork. “I think I’m a bottom.”

Astrid choked on her waffle and had to take a moment to soothe her throat with water before she could properly take on this statement. Hiccup looked so _sure_ of himself—sitting there watching her with concern, reaching across the table like that might help, and his mouth tilting frankly. Once she’d composed herself, she gasped, “A _bottom_?”

“Are you okay? You need to breathe.”

“I’m breathing. I’m breathing. What do you…”

“I mean that’s…” He made a little frustrated noise—she could feel the table wiggle as he shook his knee nervously beneath it. “It means what you think it means.”

“That you like when I’m on top?” A feeling struck her that all the sex she’d had in the past four years had somehow been tame, or traditional, or only the tip of the iceberg.

“Yes, and like, that whole general attitude that comes along with it.” He poked at his eggs and glanced around the restaurant, like that might make this conversation more casual. “You know, when you’re _in charge_.”

“In charge? Like…” And she was remembering a string of little sexual eccentricities, how he sometimes played dumb so she’d tell him exactly what to do while sounding more than a bit annoyed, the amount of time he spent down on her. “Oh my god. In charge.” She felt warm, and found herself glancing around, too, concerned that someone had overheard them or might know what it was they were discussing from a single glance at the table. “You have a kink,” she muttered, trying to get the information to solidify in her head.

He gasped, affronted. “It’s not a kink!”

“Oh, babe, it’s _so_ a kink—that’s fine, though, lots of people have kinks. Everybody.”

He apparently took this as the opposite of the truth and groaned, “I’m a sex freak,” a little loudly.

“You’re not a sex freak, okay?” Astrid snapped. “You need to breathe.”

“I’m breathing! I just thought it would be nice if I could have one thing where I’m completely a hundred-percent normal.” He was pouting fiercely and she couldn’t help an eye-roll.

“I mean, if you want so much to be normal, what’s it got to do with blowjobs?”

He cringed at the word. “I’ve just never been interested in them, I guess? The idea of you just—doing something for me, it’s not in the right spirit.” He even cringed at his own description, and she felt sort of bad that she’d forced this, but it was also essential information. “Which, of course drunk me couldn’t find the words to explain this to you, sober me is barely managing.”

“You’re managing fine.” He’d been neglecting his meal and went back to it now, a crease between his brows. “Would it help if I ordered you to let me blow you?”

Squinting at her across the table, he chewed slowly, then swallowed. But he didn’t speak.

So Astrid took a deep breath and arranged her napkin. “I just thought it would be nice if I got to be your first something. And you might end up liking it, if you give it a chance.”

“I’m never going to get to be your first anything,” Hiccup observed, also paying undue attention to his napkin.

“Not sexually, probably. You never know. But you were my first game of Dungeons & Dragons, and my first Coney Island hotdog, so.” She smiled, trying to catch his eye. “There’s that. Plus, like I said, you’re so good about going down on—”

“Okay, see, no,” he poked his fork at her, very worked up, “Stop acting like that’s the same, it’s _not_ , there’s no… decision to spit or swallow at the end of that, you don’t deposit anything in my mouth.”

Astrid was cracking up behind her hand. “Don’t I, though?”

“We’re eating, Az.”

“You always swallow, right. And lick your lips too.”

He threw down the fork, shaking his head. “There goes my appetite.”

“I thought you never lose your appetite.”

Hiccup tried to glare but started to laugh instead, and they both giggled over their plates, driven to it by the absurd conversation in the equally absurd locale. At this point she’d grown certain that the couple sitting behind him could hear everything they said, but she didn’t want to break the news, she feared for his health.

“So am I allowed to boss you into a blowjob or not?” she demanded, when she’d caught her breath.

Hiccup stared at her, seriousness falling over his face again, lips parted in contemplation. And then he glanced away, receding into a smaller version of himself. “Are you going to hate me if I say no?”

“No, of course not,” she exhaled, disbelieving, astonished he could even—whatever, whatever, it was hard for him, she knew.

“Our sex life is great the way it is—or _I_ think so, I mean, I personally have no complaints.”

She gave him a smile. “Me either.”

“The last time I tried a sex… thing that didn’t go well, it destroyed my relationship.” His eyes came back to meet hers. “I really like dating you, Astrid.”

“Okay. Hear me out.” Summoning up the most rational part of herself, Astrid put her elbows on the table and clasped her hands above her plate. “I have no complaints except that you think I’d ever do to you what Heather did. Because I wouldn’t.”

“I know that,” he muttered, as though he didn’t mean to imply this, even if he had.

“If you want to take this off the table because… you don’t feel ready, or it makes you uncomfortable, then that’s fine.” The waiter came by and laid a check on the table, and she went quiet until he’d gone again. “But if you’re ruling out something that’s probably going to feel _awesome_ , just because you’re convinced in some corner of your mind that it’s going to make us break up…” She shook her head. “It’s kind of silly—no, okay, it’s not silly,” she corrected, seeing him seize up a little in embarrassment. “I get it. It’s just unnecessary. I don’t want you to feel that way. I want you to feel like you can try anything with me.”

He squinted at her. “Anything?”

“Okay, kinky, don’t like… ” Hiccup grinned and she stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m just trying to tell you that when we’re together, you’re safe. I’m being sweet and it’s cute and—and you should stop _laughing_ at me, Haddock!”

“No, you are, I agree it’s cute.” With both of them smiling, some tension fled the conversation. He looked more comfortable, and thoughtful, and he tugged on his lip, watching her finish her orange juice. “I guess it’s okay.”

She wiped her mouth on her napkin, and repeated, “It’s okay.”

“To try it. The—you know.” Hiccup’s ears had gone red, he rubbed the back of his neck in that sheepish way she liked so much.

Astrid lowered her napkin. She was pursing her lips in order to hide a massive grin and keep from terrifying him or reminding him she had teeth. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you care when?”

Hiccup sat forward in alarm, eyes darting over the restaurant. “Wait, you’re not talking about _now_ —”

She snorted so hard a few other patrons glanced at them. “I just meant, do you care if we plan it or if I just do it when I feel like it?”

He sat back, relieved. “Oh. Uh, I don’t care as long as I get a…” Groaning, he shut his eyes. “Heads-up. Wow.”

“More like a heads-down, right?” She winked, earning an especially dorky giggle from Hiccup. “No, wow, did you think I was going to drag you into the bathroom or something?”

“You have been known to do that, Az.”

“Right,” she said, having entirely forgotten about that night—a year ago now but it felt longer. So much shit had happened after that, and so much that wasn’t shit, too. “Well, if I hadn’t done it that time, we probably wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

A less happy thought occurred to her. “Maybe we’d have been here a lot sooner.”

She regretted this retrospective swing as it settled darkly over their conversation, weighing them down. And it was _fine_ , because they’d made it and they were older and she knew better than to question their happiness, but that refusal came harder when she got to thinking about all the time they’d wasted being miserable. Already the semester was coming to close, and it felt like nothing, like she’d slipped and got back to her feet and the world had turned around her. Last year _dragged_ on and this one was half-gone. How was she supposed to make the next two years last a little longer? Why’d she have to go and fuck them over right at the beginning?

“Astrid.”

She’d been staring at her plate without realizing, and looked up to see him frowning at her, worried. Embarrassed to acknowledge feeling anything at all, she threw him a glare. “What. I’m fine.”

Hiccup met her glare with a considerate purse of his lips. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to do exactly what you’d do for me if I were getting all… you know.” Astrid crossed her arms over her chest and slumped in her chair, which he countered by sitting forward. “You’re upset it wasn’t perfect. And it really wasn’t, but you know, the blame’s mutual. So don’t be so hard on yourself, for once.” Her eyes fell to the toe of her shoe. Sighing, Hiccup leaned over the table. “I’m not gonna say I wouldn’t change a thing. Because you know I would. But,” and she heard a hitch in his voice, “all that time you were there for me when I needed somebody, that was how I knew how I felt about you. I always liked you and thought you were cool and, uh, very hot—” She barely suppressed a nervous laugh. “—but like… I don’t think I’d want to change the way I found out how amazing you are. It was worth it. That’s how I—well, you know what I mean, right?” He took a sip of coffee, though it must have been cold. “You usually do a better job than that, but I gave it a shot.”

She couldn’t quite pry her gaze from the floor because she was blushing and didn’t want him to notice, as pointless and counterproductive as that might have been. She cleared her throat. “You did do a good job. You’re almost as good as me at pep talks.”

He grinned broadly. “I’m happy to be almost as good as you at anything.”

“God, you’re a dork,” she said, sitting up with a smile.

“Okay, now you’re just repeating yourself.”

“If you ever stopped being a dork I’d be mad, I’m just checking to make sure.” She kept smiling, but felt it grow a little shyer. “And I know exactly what you meant. So.” He nodded and her chest fluttered, a little nauseating. “Fuck,” she said, elbows on the table, head in her hands. “I’m going to miss you. I hate that I’m not going to be able to go across the hall in the morning and crawl in bed with you.”

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the expression of dismay on Hiccup’s face. He just sort of gaped at her, as though she’d said something upsetting. And then he noticed that she’d noticed, and forced out a weak explanation, “You don’t do that very often or anything.”

“I like knowing I can. I like knowing if you needed me I could be there in a second, or if I needed you—hey.” She glanced up at him quickly. “You know you can call me any time, for any reason, right?”

He had that odd weight in his voice, still, the sadness she didn’t understand. “Yeah, I know, Az.”

Admittedly, it made Astrid nervous, his frowning and staring off across the café. When his mind went somewhere else she usually knew why, and she couldn’t think what had brought this on. And though the answer scared her, she’d trained herself well to ask, plainly, “What’s wrong?”

He looked as though he was as scared of the question as she was of the answer. “It’s nothing. I’ve just been thinking.” Hiccup hesitated, and made her consider that what he said next perhaps wasn’t the whole truth. “We’re having Thanksgiving dinner at my mom’s. My dad is going to be there, too. She keeps calling me to ask my opinion on like, side dishes, it’s making me anxious.” Remembering Dr. Larama’s misplaced expression of maternal concern, Astrid’s eyes fell to her lap. “I think they’re planning something.”

“It sounds like they’re planning Thanksgiving dinner,” she joked feebly. He smiled just enough to appreciate her effort.

“Maybe. But doing the smart, normal, respectful thing isn’t something they’re very good at, so I’m not holding my breath.”

“Well. Remember you can call me.”

It was her aggressive concern, finally, that lifted his dark expression, leaving him flustered and flattered. “Yeah, I got it! I can call you any time.” He grabbed the check and examined it—they alternated paying, it was his turn. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

 


	27. Family

_Oh, tell me what you want,  
What you really really want._

Scowling, Astrid hit ignore on her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.

Only the quiet mirth of Alec, who kept grinning and chuckling at Astrid, and the clink of silverware, broke the uncomfortable silence at the Hofferson family table. She shot her brother a death glare, and then flashed her mother an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Maybe you should put it on silent so we don’t have to hear that stupid song again,” suggested Sydney, and Astrid turned the death glare her sister’s way.

“So what is everyone thankful for this year?” asked their father, louder than necessary. He was not a fan of domestic conflict—he’d even gotten upset earlier that day when Alec and Astrid had a screaming match over a bad play in their football game.

Their mother cast a carefully composed matronly smile down the table. “I’m thankful that we’re all together for the holiday.”

“I’m thankful for Astrid’s terrible taste in music,” Alec snickered, and she sharpened her glare.

“Don’t talk about the Spice Girls, Alec, you were barely alive then.”

_Oh, tell me what you want—_

Syd and Alec broke out laughing again, as Astrid struggled to pull her phone out of her pocket. _Hiccup calling_. Not that she needed the hint, it didn’t play “Wannabe” for anyone else, though she was starting to regret the inside joke. She silenced it but didn’t hang up, and looked to her parents.

“I’m sorry, I think I should take this, just to make sure everything’s…”

A wary glance passed between them. “Who is it, Astrid?” her dad asked.

“Just—I’ll explain in a minute, please just keep eating.” And she slid from her chair, willing herself to ignore the clear disapproval on her mother’s face.

She hit the accept call button in the family room and then slipped out on to the tiny balcony, just big enough for one folding chair, where she sat. Their apartment, being a subdivision, was sort of bizarrely laid out, with the laundry and storage on the first floor, and the real living spaces on the second and third.

“Oh, thank god,” was the first thing he said. Through her worry, she grinned at the sound of his voice.

“Hi, babe, what’s up?” Astrid heard him laugh, but not happily. Below her in the street, cars shot by, and a November night in Los Angeles was like a late summer one in New York, so the light breeze felt good on her skin.

“My parents are getting remarried.”

Oh. Shit. Astrid leaned over, head in her hands. Fucking Dr. Larama, and the fucking Sofa King.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, yeah, wow.”

“Are you freaking out?” A pointless question, really, when his voice sounded so strained on the other end of the line, and he’d called her six times until she picked up, and she knew what a longstanding fear this had been for him. She remembered what he’d said all those months ago in his mother’s apartment, that if his parents married again, he’d never get married himself—it seemed like such a waste, when he’d be… good at that.

“I think I’m dying,” he croaked. “Somebody up there hates me.”

“I’m so sorry, Hiccup.”

“I just can’t believe this, they haven’t even been dating for a _year_ and they give me this whole talk about how it has to work this time!” Astrid’s chest ached; she could almost hear him pacing on the other end of the line. “It’s so stupid, it’s just going to end again, and they’re going to get divorced again—”

“Okay, just take a deep breath, babe.” He was on the edge of a panic attack and she started flipping through her catalogue of remedies as he made a horrible noise, a laugh-sob. “Is Toothless around? Where are you?”

“I don’t—I’m just walking around, I left the apartment.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

“It’s really fucking cold. God, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” she said firmly. “Stop walking for a second. Breathe with me. In,” she inhaled and listened until she heard a similar sound through the phone. “Out.” They exhaled together. Hiccup gave a tiny sigh.

“This is incredible,” he said, still distressed but calmer now. “What if they split up again? I’m still recovering from the last time.”

She tried not to imagine the scenario too vividly—it was hard enough to hear him as upset as he was right now. “If they split up again… you’ll be out of school or almost out, probably. You won’t have to be there for it. If they’re being unreasonable, then you don’t have to answer their phone calls.”

“But they’re my _parents_ ,” he groaned.

“If your family doesn’t respect you, then you owe them nothing. You don’t owe anything to anyone who makes you feel like this.” She had learned that lesson the hard way, but she knew it by heart now. “I’ll be your family. Fish can be your family. You always have family.”

A long pause from Hiccup. “There’s another thing. My mom knew we were going out, I have no idea how, she like—is she spying on me, it’s so—”

“I told her.” Astrid sunk down into the chair, suddenly chilly.

“What?” Hiccup sounded alarmed. “You mean in office hours, or something?”

“Yeah.”

“So—I’m sorry, what…”

“She asked.” She heard him gasp and shut her eyes. “I didn’t know… I didn’t want to lie.”

“She fucking _asked_ you that? At school?” His voice rose again. “That’s—completely inappropriate!”

“I know.”

“Holy shit, Astrid. How am I supposed to go back there?”

Better not mention the whole “too young for grandchildren” thing, Astrid decided. He knew enough, she could rest easy knowing she’d told him a sanitized version of the truth. “It’ll be okay.”

“I can’t be around them. I can’t. I need to get out of here,” he panted, not reassured. Under his voice she could hear passing sirens, so he hadn’t gone back to the apartment yet.

“Out of where?”

“I… I don’t know. I just need to get away from my parents for a while. Out of New York. Somewhere I can go weeks without thinking about this. I’ve been under this cloud for a decade, I’m ready to be—something other than a child of divorce.”

A selfish part of her wanted to say, _but what about me_? Except it wasn’t the right question for the occasion; she knew better, and she wanted him to feel better too, not just to feel better herself. “Where are you going to go?” she asked innocently, as though this were some fantasy she didn’t quite need to indulge as a possibility. As though they were only playing like he’d leave, when he never would, not really.

“I’m going to go…” His voice grew hollow and distant. “Somewhere far away. Somewhere hot and sunny.”

“Los Angeles?” she joked, and he giggled half-heartedly.

“Yeah. That seems good enough for now, I’ll be right there.”

“Good. I miss you.” And she did; it was fucking terrible to hear the thinly veiled pain in his voice and be utterly helpless to stop it.

“I miss you too. You know, for someone with horrible anger issues, you’re pretty good at calming me down.” Astrid felt the stupidest grin crawl over her lips.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Haddock? Fucking anger issues? Bullshit.” Now he was really laughing. “If you were here right now I’d show you fucking anger issues.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“I’d hug you so hard you’d like, burst a blood vessel.”

“Oh man. That sounds romantic.”

“It’s super fucking sweet.”

“It is. I love you, Astrid.” She felt the grin slide from her face. Surprised. Her cheeks grew warm. “Oh,” came Hiccup’s voice weakly, “Sorry, uh. I was kind of hoping to say it to your face for the… first time. Sorry. Shit. Rough day.”

“It’s okay. That was perfect,” she managed. Her throat tightened. _I love you, Astrid_.

“I know it’s only been a few months, it’s soon…”

“It’s been more than a few months.” It may well have been that when Fish said they were _in love_ only a week after their get-together, he was right. She couldn’t pinpoint when she started loving Hiccup—maybe it had been at an entirely inappropriate time: when he was with Heather, when he told her she deserved everything. Maybe it was more gradual, a slow drip of action and affection until she filled up with love for him. But somewhere along the way she had fallen and fallen hard, and she sat on her little concrete porch looking out over her hometown, felled, cradling her phone to her ear and missing more than ever the bony firmness of his chest. “I love you too,” she muttered, eyes screwed shut as she fought off a stab of pain—not that it was painful to love him, only that it was painful to love him and be apart. As much as she’d helped him and been there when he needed, he had done the same for her. Was that codependence? She didn’t think so, she only felt safer and happier to be near him.

“Uh. Thank you.” A laugh escaped her, what a sudden awkward dive, and then Hiccup was laughing too.

“We are bad at this,” she said breathlessly.

“Nah, we’re—perfect,” he borrowed her word.

“Do you feel any better?”

“Yeah. Way better.” There was new warmth in his tone that lifted Astrid’s heart.

“Okay, well, I sort of… ran out in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to come talk to you—”

“Wait, seriously!”

“Yeah. I told them it’d only be a second. My mom’s going to be pissed.” She glanced inside through the glass door and spied her mother’s blonde head of hair disappearing back into the dining room. Speaking of maternal spying.

“I’ll let you go. Tell your parents I said hi.”

“Sure.” Not that they knew she had a boyfriend or had ever heard Hiccup’s name, but whatever. Didn’t seem like she could get away with that charade much longer. “What are you going to do? Are you going home? Call me later.”

“Demanding!”

“I thought you like me being demanding.” Hiccup made a mock affronted sound, and she giggled into the phone. “Okay, I gotta go…” A thought occurred that, if he were here, she could peck him on the cheek to say goodbye. “Hey, we should practice doing sex stuff on Skype when we get back to school so we can be ready for winter break.”

“Ha, ha… oh, you’re not kidding?”

“No! I waited like a year. I can’t do another five weeks.”

His laughter turned stiff and humorless, a puzzling thing, but he covered it up quickly: “I’ll think about it. I think I’m going to talk to my parents when I get home.”

Astrid had stood to go inside, but froze with her hand on the door. “Talk to them.”

“Yeah, remember how on our first date, you told me…” She remembered. She had wanted him to stand up for himself—kind of ironic when she couldn’t bring herself to shoot down his mother’s probing queries, but it was different for Hiccup. It meant a lot for him to say this.

“What are you going to say?”

“That… I don’t care if they get married, I only care if they get divorced. I won’t be there for them if they do that.”

“That’s good, babe,” she choked out, overcome. “I’m proud of you.”

“Are you… crying?”

She jerked the phone away from her ear and glared at it. “No! I’m just really fucking proud of you! I have to go!”

“Bye, Astrid,” Hiccup laughed, and the sound echoed in her ears as she went back inside.

Her family didn’t look like they’d moved—even her mother, who had been peeking at her not five minutes ago, posed guiltlessly with her eyes on the table. But their plates were emptier than when she left. 

“Welcome back, honey,” said her dad with forced cheer. Astrid gave him a tiny smile and fell back into her chair. Across from her, Alec sniggered.

Her mother cleared her throat. “You might need to zap your food in the microwave.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Astrid insisted, not wanting to disrupt the meal any more than she already had. “Sorry I took so long.” And she shoveled a forkful of lukewarm mashed potatoes into her mouth.

“Is everything all right with your friend?” She knew this tactic; she could recognize the way her mother said _friend_ ; it demanded to know who was so important that she’d run out on a holiday dinner with her family. Fair enough, Astrid thought, but it wouldn’t make telling them any easier. She could sense they’d been waiting to hear any news of a boy after Ben—they being her parents, Alec and Syd weren’t old enough to worry about her. They weren’t even old enough to understand what precisely had happened with her ex. But her parents: they must’ve thought she was damaged for life, it had been over a year since they’d heard about any romantic interest who wasn’t just terrorizing her.

And they’d know about Hiccup eventually. He would meet them. He would sit at this very table and explain calmly how he’d become interested in structural engineering and about the significance of his Scottish heritage. He would sleep on their couch. Hiding it delayed the inevitable, and Astrid had started to hate delays. “Everything’s fine now. With my boyfriend, actually.”

Predictably, her mother said, “A boyfriend,” and cast a look down the table at her father.

“You left in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner to go talk to your boyfriend?” asked Sydney, delighted by the misbehavior, but Astrid had anticipated this and she addressed her sister frankly.

“He has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and he was having a panic attack.”

This statement silenced the room. She kept her gaze trained on what was left on her turkey, hoping to avoid whatever series of glances was going on between her family members, particularly her mother and father. Maybe they thought she had a soft spot for boys with horrible mental problems, and maybe she did, but Hiccup and Ben couldn’t have been more different. If anyone asked, she would say just that.

“Well,” said her dad finally, “are you going to tell us about him?”

“He’s in my year. He’s studying engineering.”

“And how long—”

“Three months.” Nodding, she reconsidered. “I guess it’s more like two, technically. Since we started officially dating.”

“How do you unofficially date?” demanded Sydney—sounding young and curious, and Alec threw Astrid a hilarious look, as if to say, _do you want me or you to explain to her about hooking up?_ She scowled, and pointedly ignored him.

“I just didn’t call him my boyfriend right away.”

Syd’s nose wrinkled. “That’s weird. How do you know this boy?”

“We’ve been friends since freshman year.”

“Is it the one with the weird voice you kept skyping last Christmas?”

An odd expression crossed her mother’s face, yet another thing for Astrid to ignore. “Uh. Yeah. I guess we did skype at Christmas.”

“You’ve been friends for a long time,” her mom observed, “Is it serious, then?”

Astrid took a long moment. Her food _was_ cold, but it didn’t matter, she didn’t feel hungry anymore. _Is it serious_. She couldn’t doubt the answer—ten minutes ago he had told her he loved her. For the first time, sure, but it wasn’t as if that switch just flipped on in the middle of their phone call. And maybe even more serious than that, she’d told her family about him. So her reply was self-evident because her mother had been able to ask the question.

“Yep,” she sighed. “It’s serious.”

“Wow,” said her mom, slowly, looking at her father again. “That’s great, honey.”

Astrid inhaled, and beamed around the table. “Yeah. It is. Can I help clear the dishes?”

* * *

Snugged into her childhood bed that night, she tried to read a novel—breaks were the only time for pleasure reading, college had taught her—but the words blurred together. Her mind went elsewhere. Hiccup had called again before he went to sleep, and they talked for another hour about the conversation with his parents. She felt congested, nothing going in or out of her head. Sighing, Astrid snapped the book shut just as Sydney returned from the bathroom with her hair in a towel. She collapsed on to her bed and squinted across the room at her older sister, who lay face-to-pillow.

“Mom and Dad met in college, you know.” _More_ of this, okay.

She shifted her head just enough that her speech wouldn’t sound entirely muffled. “Mom and Dad met in law school.”

“So?”

“So they were a lot older than I am right now.”

“A lot of people marry their college boyfriends,” Sydney pointed out, as if she knew what she was talking about.

“Not lesbians.”

“You’re not a lesbian.”

“No, Syd, I’m not a lesbian.”

“You just like to date girls sometimes.”

Astrid raised her head from the pillow and gave her sister a withering look. “Do you have a point to make?”

Shrugging, Syd started took the towel from her damp blonde hair and attacked it with a brush. Like Astrid, she wore it in a braid most days, though because she didn’t swim frequently she didn’t have the same problem with chlorine affecting the texture. It had taken Astrid a long time to realize her younger sister emulated her subconsciously. “I was just wondering if you’re going to end up married to your boyfriend.”

Astrid rubbed her eyes. “I don’t think so, Syd.”

“How do you know?”

“He doesn’t want to get married.”

“But you already talked about it!”

“No, he just—” She sat up with a grunt. “His parents are like, horribly divorced. He doesn’t want to get married ever. Not everybody has a family like us.”

Her sister watched her, frowning slightly. “That’s sad.”

“I guess… I guess it is kind of sad, yeah.”

“Why did you pick a boyfriend with such a terrible life?” Syd demanded, like she’d just remembered the mention of a horrible mental illness at the dinner table, and put that together with the marriage thing—so perhaps Astrid had not painted a particularly sunny portrait of Hiccup for her family thus far.

 _Pick_ him. Why’d she pick him? “You’ve had crushes on boys before, right?” Syd pouted and turned away from her, which was a yes. “Did you pick those boys? No, right?”

“Fine. I get it. Terrible life boy is just super cute or something!” Tossing her hairbrush aside, Syd climbed under the covers with a pout. “I’m shutting off the light.”

“Sure.”

Lying there in the dark, Astrid thought of him again. When she thought of Hiccup somewhere hot and sunny, she didn’t see LA—she didn’t know where he was, but it felt far-off and she couldn’t imagine herself there with him. The dissonance deafened her, she pulled the blanket over her head.

Her little sister’s voice rang through the blackness of the room, talking with the lights off, just like when they were little girls. “Our family’s pretty cool, but I can’t wait to have my own room.”

 


End file.
